Survival
by Amata le Fay
Summary: Because it and sanity rarely go together. Welcome to the Hunger Games, and try to hold on to something, if you dare...
1. Requests: Amata le Fay, Gamemaker

**Author's Note: Hello all, and welcome to the story. Enjoy, and remember that everyone knows fanfiction writers live for the reviews.**

**Disclaimer of the Story: Who do you think I am, Suzanne Collins?**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Yes, Amata the Head Gamemaker is my Author Avatar. Couldn't resist.**

...

_Amata le Fay, Head Gamemaker, Capitol_

"Miss Le Fay?"

I brush my dark purple bangs out of my eyes and spin around in my chair to see the president staring me in the face. "Madam—President—Shadow. How nice to see you—sit down—can I help you? I mean, shouldn't you be addressing the crowd before the games start?"

"I have a few minutes." She sits down in the chair beside me, glancing down at my desk. "Is this the tribute list?"

I slide the piece of paper towards her, nodding. She pulls a green pen out of her pocket and clicks it open, leaning forward, hazel eyes flickering in the light. "Listen, Amata. These Games are incredibly important. You know that the reapings were rigged even more so than usual, but I need you to know why. So." She circles several names on the paper. "I need you to make sure these tributes have been killed by the end of the games. More importantly, make them suffer. Die slowly, in agony. Use your creative brain to think up something even more horrible."

I scan down the list. Six names circled. "That should be—pretty easy—to do."

"I thought so." She leans back, smirking.

"Might—I ask—why?"

She stands and begins to exit before calling behind her shoulder, "Rebellion."

It figures. Rebels occasionally pop up here and there, and the games are generally the perfect way to crush them, if they have children. It's not uncommon. And I enjoy a challenge, especially when my life is on the line.

I lightly close my eyes and swivel my chair back to the screen, where an aerial shot of the arena is being interspersed with scenes from the tributes' launch rooms and the mentors' room. As a Gamemaker, you can see and control everything, and you can do anything you want within the rules of the games.

Let the free reign begin.

_**Tribute List:**_

_One: Emily Raine & Luka Saroque_

_Two: Fawn Serenity "Emerald" Honeycomb & Marius Sheer _

_Three: Thalia Trinket & Link Anderson_

_Four: Carreen Haggerty & Gabriel Maddox_

_Five: Teagan Stratus & Veras Valdes _

_Six: Neetamarie "Mary" Telva & Eadem Ordinaria_

_Seven: Briana "Bri" Renay Geers & Che Botill_

_Eight: Parker Bates & Yon Trizzle_

_Nine: Jacy "Jace" Faith Latone & Noaa Carpenter_

_Ten: Chantelle Jacobsen & Anderson Birk_

_Eleven: Caprice Alexander & Cameron Ray_

_Twelve: Riley Rynne & Kirby Knightly_


	2. Couldn't Be Happier: Emily Raine, One

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Emily, the first tribute reaped, was also the first tribute submitted.**

...

_Emily Raine, District One_

Everybody tells me I have it all.

I guess, from the outside, I do. Stunning looks. Lots of friends. Popularity. Boyfriends. _Money_. I've never had to work a day in my life. Heck, I've never even had to train for the Games, although I do know how to use a bow and arrow. I come from a long line of victors, and I have everything anyone could possibly want.

Except happiness.

It's selfish of me, I know. Some kids in the district would _kill_—quite literally—to be in my position. But I really can't see _why_.

Sure, my life is as _"perfect"_ as it can get.

But it's not right for _me_.

I roll over onto my side, kicking the down comforter off the bed. Reaping Day morning. _Ugh._

My uncle is always scared to death that one of the kids in the family will get reaped one of these days. I guess it makes sense—relatives of victors are more often reaped than not—but even so, some Career will no doubt volunteer before I can go to the Games. District One is full of them, and I'm only 14 years old, after all.

So today I'm more concerned with the fact that I have to wake up at 6:30 in the morning to get ready than the actual fear that I'll get chosen. _6:30._ One of the more disappointing aspects of my already disappointing life.

I brush my hair out, an unusually easy task because of its silky texture, arranging it so it falls in golden cascades down my back. I slip on a gauzy dress that fades from orange to pink near the bottom, and slip on some matching high heels. District social standards mandate that I must dress up for the reaping, even more than I do usually. Don't know why—it's not like I'm going to the Capitol anyways.

My eyes rove around for a second and catch sight of the silver bow and quiver of arrows leaning against the wall in the back corner of the room. The only weapon I know how to use, but a formidable one. And, if I wanted to, I could _probably_ kill with it...

I shake my head slowly, putting on a small smile. I'm not going into the Games. Not this year, not any year. I know of at least twenty girls dying to take that place, and it's a pretty large district, besides.

On a last-minute whim, I snatch the weapon from its spot and sling it over my shoulder before heading downstairs for breakfast.

"Are you bringing that to the Reaping?" says my brother Shade, nodding at my bow. "'Cause you can't, you know."

I roll my eyes.

"I tried," he continues. "One year. Got a beating from the local Peacekeepers. _Not_ fun."

"What about the Careers?" I ask, slightly confused. "I mean, don't they bring weapons? For support and stuff?"

Shade snorts. "Oh, my naïve little nugget." He pats my head and I scowl. "Don't you know that Careering is _still _technically outlawed in the districts, and that being caught with a weapon means severe punishment or death?"

Shade's memorized the Peacekeeper's rulebook and constantly cites it, claiming that one day he'll convince the Capitol to let a District One-er take a job. Needless to say, he hasn't gotten it, which leaves him hanging around home and generally being a nuisance.

My whole family's a nuisance, actually. As well as all of my friends. Don't know why I bother to stick around...

I sigh and eat my breakfast—bacon and eggs, fresh from District Ten—and then we all get in the car and head for the Reaping. A car is a luxury even in District One, and swarms of impressed people crowd around it while we're trying to drive. I've gotten used to the stares.

My sisters and I sign in—Shade's too old for the Reaping, at 24—and I head off to the 14-year-olds section. Or more like it rushes up to greet me. I smile emptily and wave, flitting about from group to group, listening to people gush over my dress, gushing over other girls' dresses. It's almost as if the Social Butterfly Happy Perfect Emily is inhabiting my body while Normal Worried Depressed Loner Freak Emily sits back and sulks for a moment.

Just more proof to show that my life is pointless.

Eventually we settle down and listen to the mayor of the district greet us and read us the History of Panem. Earthquakes, floods, fires, genocides, the list goes on. Poor, poor Panem. Great, _great _Capitol.

Not that I _don't like_ the Capitol, it's just...

Our escort, a plump lady in a sparkly orange dress and a lime green wig, introduces herself as "NERA VERONA!" and screeches, "HAPPY HUNGER GAMES, DISTRICT ONE, AND MAY THE ODDS BE _EVER IN YOUR FAVOR!" _I personally don't see why she has to scream everything at the top of her lungs; it gets annoying.

"Ladies first." She brings her voice down dramatically, to add suspense, I guess, as she walks delicately over to the bowl on the left and fishes out a slip.

"EMILY RAINE!"

...

Well, that was unexpected.

I walk up to the stage, putting on my most calm and collected face. Somebody's going to volunteer. Of course they will. This is _District One_.

"ANY VOLUNTEERS?" Her voice is loaded, she knows what's bound to happen next.

...

Wait a minute...

Where are the volunteers?

I scan the crowd for the twenty girls I was sure were at least going to try. They're all standing there in a group, watching me watch them. My eyes flicker over to the eighteen-year-old section, where many of the hopefuls will never have a chance to compete again. Nobody shows even a hint that they're going to spring forward.

"WELL, THEN." Nera looks as happy as a kid in a candy shop, twirling across the stage to shake my hand. "WE HAVE OUR TRIBUTE! EMILY RAINE, EVERYONE!" She looks at me a little closer. "YOU WOULDN'T BY ANY CHANCE BE RELATED TO SPARK RAINE, FIDELLA RAINE-THENN, OR ANY OF THE OTHER 'RAINE' VICTORS OF DISTRICT ONE, ARE YOU?"

I clear my throat, trying to keep calm. "Yes, yes I am."

She claps her hands together, walking over to the boys' bowl. "GOOD, GOOD, GOOD!"

I take in a deep breath. What the—what just happened? Were there actually no volunteers? Am I _really _a tribute? Am I seriously in _the Hunger Games?_

No, it can't be...

Nera picks a boy and reads out his name, and a vicious-looking 16-year-old volunteers for him, grinning widely like a shark. I don't bother to pay attention; I'm too busy processing what just happened.

And then it finally hits me.

I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games.

And I will most likely die.

Unhappily.

Nera calls for the boy tribute and me to shake hands while she reads something—no last-minute volunteers, much to my disappointment—and then we're off to the Justice Building.

My family comes and visits, awkwardly assuring me that I'll do great and that I'll come home, obviously trying to hide their fear. I tune out most of their encouragement.

After them, my uncle Spark rushes in frantically, telling me that he'll try to get the schedules mentor to switch so he can mentor me, muttering how he knew this would happen someday, and that he shouldn't have—something. I really don't pay attention to that, I'm still partially in shock.

Then comes a string of friends and acquaintances and boyfriends, all congratulating me and assuring me that I'll do great. I manage to gain control of myself for a moment and ask one of them, "Why didn't anybody volunteer?"

The friend, a girl named Malden who's been training since she was six, replies, "We were told not to, not if you or anybody from your family were reaped. Dunno why. Orders from the Capitol."

After everyone is gone, that remark rolls around in my head. I've been set up. The Capitol wants me to die, probably because of something Spark did.

It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.

I board the train, laughing and waving and smiling and being pretty for the Capitol audience, feeling even more hollow than I was before.


	3. The Heroic Sociopath: Luka Saroque, One

**Warning: Minor swearing in this chapter. The characters called for it. I'll try to keep it to a minimum.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: When describing this tribute, the creator said, "Basically, read the TV Tropes page on Heroic Sociopath. That's pretty much Luka in a nutshell." Hence the Chapter title.**

...

_Luka Saroque, District One_

"W-what?"

My trainer looks around confusedly and I press the knife closer to Ivan's neck. "Good morning, Ivan."

I hear him sigh and his defenses back down a little. Good. "Stop that, Luka. You know how frayed my nerves-"

"-get when I'm sleeping," I finish in unison with him, signature grin spreading across my face. "So am I volunteering this year or what?"

He blinks for a few moments before responding, rather hesitantly, "No. Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"Oh, gee. I wonder. Well, I have a _knife_ to your _throat_." I roll my eyes.

"And..."

Honestly! How obvious do I have to make it to this guy?

"And," I sigh, "if you don't make sure I'm the only one who'll volunteer, I'll slit it open. Fairly standard procedure, actually. So there you have it. A death threat hanging over you. Somehow I think that your concern for your own self-preservation outweighs the consequences of me going to the Hunger Games, don't you?"

"What would _you_ get out of it?" he snarls back, sitting up. "Killing me, I mean. You'd still be shut out by the older volunteers. There's a particularly vicious eighteen-year-old who's determined to get in this year, and I'm gonna let him. Besides, you'd be charged for murder and hung in the blink of an eye."

"_Hanged_," I correct with a smirk, knowing that's just the thing that would bug him the most. "And I'll already be halfway to the Capitol by the time they even find your body."

"Really? This is the first place they'll look for me. Especially with me being the mentor this year."

"I'll be sure to hide the body." I circle around him, adjusting the point of the knife to a slightly-more-threatening position. "And I have no qualms about possibly murdering my future mentor. It'll just be practice for when I'm actually in the games."

A shadow clouds over his eyes, and he shakes his head. "One in twenty-four," he finally says, quieter. "Maybe higher odds, if you're lucky. But still just the same, everything evens out. The Gamemakers like surprises, even if you give them a good show. It takes more than just strength to win the games, Luka."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. He's said some variant of that speech twice this week and countless times over the years. About how external factors can mean everything in the arena, and bring down the most ruthless of players. Whatever.

"In order to heed that advice, I'm gonna have to _be_ in the Games," I say, nicking Ivan's skin and watching the small droplets of blood trickle down. "You've got five seconds."

He looks down, swallows, and his face immediately hardens. "When you're in the arena," he says slowly, "don't go annoying your allies like this, all right? 'Cause they're not gonna give in. They're gonna try and kill you back." He snaps forward, lunging for the knife handle. I skirt away, sprinting over to the sword rack in the corner of the room, throwing in a handspring for good measure. Within a few seconds, he's caught up to me, pulling out a knife of his own from a nearby pile. We duel for a minute or two before he kicks me over and snatches up my knife.

"Get the bloody hell out of here," he snaps, face without a minuscule drop of hilarity. "And I hope you get slaughtered in that arena."

I smirk and somersault back, mostly just showing off to irk him, and walk back to my house, which is nearby, to get ready for the reaping. The girls all make a big deal of whatever dress they're going to wear (and it's the _end of the world_ if anybody wears the same one as them! _Gasp!_), but we boys basically just throw on whatever nice suit we have and make sure to look decent for the cameras.

My little brother Kiero rushes into my room and I actually stop thinking about the games long enough to hug him. "Hey, bro."

A grin spreads across his face. "Ready for the reaping?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." I don't tell him about the whole volunteering plan because a) I want it to be a delightful surprise, and b) he's not supposed to know that I sneak in extra hours at the training center. Or that I regularly threaten normally fierce Victors in order to do so. Or that my sanity is dubious at best.

Hey, people in the lower districts say you've gotta be insane to volunteer for the games. I just take it up to the next notch. Which works out pretty well for me, with my tendency to smile maniacally and my fondness for pointy objects.

"Let's go," I tell Kiero, and for the second time this morning I'm headed off to the training center building, this particular time knowing that I'll emerge victorious.

Once we get there, Kiero heads off to the twelve-year-olds class—none of whom are allowed to volunteer—and I join the other sixteen-year-olds, practice some more with my knives, and wait for Ivan to come in and announce that Luka Saroque would represent District One in the 191st Annual Hunger Games. Along with the accompanying half-hearted applause and occasional daring boos.

After that, we all head off to the reaping together—more district tradition, not that I care—and sign in. I head off to my age section, tune out the mayor's speeches, roll my eyes at our overly-loud escort, Nera Verona. She then pulls out the girl's name and I can hear several of the nearby girls groan.

It's the Raine girl, Emily, I think. Apparently there were orders from the Capitol that, if she or someone from that family were to be reaped, nobody was to interfere. Typical of them, really. Victors, the whole lot of them, and rebels too, if my suspicions are correct. Ivan rants about how pathetic they are a lot. I could care less.

I can see her confident facade crumble as she realizes that nobody is going to volunteer and save her skin. Good, she's unprepared. Lovely.

And then comes my moment.

"BATIK-"

"I, Luka Saroque, volunteer as a tribute." I stride over to the stage without being asked, head held high, and repeat what I've just said, louder.

"GREAT!" Nera shrieks. I widen my smile for the cameras, adding a little cock of my head which hopefully makes me look devilish. We go through all that post-reaping rah-rah treaty of treason shake-hands stuff, and then we're off to the Justice Building for final goodbyes.

My parents just kinda stand there likes sticks, occasionally muttering a, "you'll do great," or a, "don't forget to ally with the other Careers." Yeah, as if I'd forget _that_. Fortunately, Kiero has a lot more to say.

On the way over to the trains, I overhear Ivan swearing loudly at somebody nearby. Spark Raine, that stupid victor and one of my partner's relatives, seems to have been arguing with him. And winning, judging by the ferocity of Ivan's curse words.

"Oh, what the hell," says Kaety, the female scheduled to mentor for this year. "He can take my spot, 'kay? And you two can continue your stupid dueling war in the Capitol." She proudly tosses her thick red hair and sprints off, leaving Ivan and Spark glowering at each other.

Hm. So Spark's gonna try and mentor his niece or whatever. And, of course, I get the advantage of more training with Ivan, who knows me better than anyone else here.

As I board the train, something Kiero said sticks in my mind. "You'll come home, right?" he asked. "You'll win, and we'll get to live in the Victor's Village?"

I'd never really thought much about _winning_ the games, more like making it interesting and creating chaos. But, now that I think about it, I have to get back to Kiero. Kiero, the clumsiest, most forgetful, most optimistic person on the planet, who thinks I'm the best brother ever and can do no wrong. I'd hate to prove him wrong by dying.

So I'll win, then.

And it'll be _fun_.


	4. Half the Fun: Emerald Honeycomb, Two

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: After looking at the name of this tribute, I was nearly ready to dismiss her as a Mary-Sue and kill her off horribly within the first minute of the Games. And then I read the tribute profile and fell in love.**

...

_Fawn Serenity Emerald Honeycomb, District Two_

"Fawn, get up!"

_Ugh_. Leave it to my parents to pick the stupidest name in the world. _"Fawn."_ What a joke. I much prefer Emerald, thank you very much.

"Fawn, we have to get ready for the reaping! _Now!_"

Sighing, I sit up and hurl myself off the bed, landing quietly on the bedroom floor. "Coming, Mom."

"Well, hurry up!" she hollers. "We don't have much time! We need to get you there so you'll volunteer in time! Remember what happened when I was late one year? I nearly-"

"I get it, Mom," I grumble, tuning her out. Mom's a nut for the Games. She volunteered every year she was eligible but—surprise, _surprise_—never made it in. And now that I'm ready, she's been pushing me to enter ever since I was twelve.

She's always been _far_ too bold for my liking. No idea how to _wait_. That makes us about as different as night and day.

I cock my head and smirk, catching my reflection in the mirror. I've always liked my appearance. Small, slim figure, but strong enough. Pale. Extremely so. White-blond hair. So _ridiculously_ innocent-looking that the cunning, ruthless grin looks wrong on the face. I drop the grin in favor of a cute little pout. There. I'm the poster model for "innocent little girl."

Ha. As _if_.

But that'll be my angle, you see. They'll underestimate me, think me weak among the Careers. But I have something that half the tributes out there certainly don't: a _brain_.

A conniving Career with an innocent facade. Combined methods of three legendary victors. Practically foolproof. I hope.

I pull on my baby blue dress—ugh—and arrange my hair in a braid. It's a loathsome appearance, but necessary in order to pull off my angle. Today I'm going to volunteer for the Games. And in a few weeks, I'm going to win.

"_Fawn!_"

"For the last time, Mom!" I screech, all thoughts of Games-planning momentarily suspended. "_Emerald! _It's _Emerald!_ If you hadn't given me such a stupid name in the _first _place, I wouldn't have to _change_ it! _God!_"

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. "Emmy, please hurry up. Your mother's anxious."

Dad's voice is _much_ less shrill, and _he_, for one, actually _respects _my wishes regarding my name and personality. We're a lot alike. Quiet, sly, sneaky. I've even inherited his complexion.

"Hold on, Dad, I'm almost ready." I slip on my blue ballet-flats and open the door to find three faces staring/glaring at me. Mom's poised to yell, Dad's arms are crossed but there's a twinkle in his eye that suggests amusement, and seven-year-old Mint is bouncing up and down with excitement.

Mint, on the other hand, is Mommy's little boy in all aspects. He's always yammering on and on about how he's going to become Two's greatest victor of all time, even though he's just started training and isn't even that good. Besides, that famous victor is going to be _me_, hands down.

"Fawn—Emerald—you've gotta get up or we'll be late for the reaping and you won't be able to volunteer," he whines, actually looking _sorry_ for me. I let out an indignant snort.

"I'm ready to go," I tell Dad.

"No breakfast?" he asks quietly.

I start down the stairs. "I'll eat on the train to the Capitol." And, with a backward glance towards Mom, adding, "And if I don't make it this year, I'll eat later."

Mom harrumphs and trudges down the stairs, Mint following.

It takes approximately ten minutes for the whole family to sprint to the city square. It actually took _me_ about five, but Mint is slower and Dad doesn't even really try. One difference between us: he was never a Career. He only wanted to _teach_ training classes. Which, admittedly, he does well.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" The lady at the sign-up desk looks up from her clipboard with a sugary smile.

"_Fawn Serenity Emerald Honeycomb_," I say through gritted teeth. "14 years old."

"Right this way." She starts to get up, presumably to show us where the 14-year-old section is. I cut her off.

"I _know_ where it _is_," I hiss, deciding to momentarily drop my sweet pretense. "I _have _been here before. _Twice_."

The lady shares a loaded look with my mom, who shrugs in reply. Figures.

I stride over to my section, keenly scanning the crowd for possible volunteering competition. I decide that very few people here are threats, not with my quick reflexes, and settle down, calmer. Eventually I feel a tap on my shoulder and whirl around to see Cargo Montgomery standing directly behind me.

He's a boy from school that I know. I can't say that he's my _friend_; _acquaintance_ would be a better word. Like me, he's mostly quiet and fiercely independent. Unfortunately, he's also impulsive and has no idea how to wait for the perfect opportunity.

"You gonna volunteer?" he asks with a grin.

I lift an eyebrow. "That's the plan, anyway."

"Think you'll be shut out by older ones?" He nods towards the 18-year-old section, where last-year Career hopefuls are flexing their muscles. I snort.

"Yeah right. As if _they_ could be any faster than _I _am."

He watches me for a moment. "Is it just me, or are you being slightly more cocky than usual?"

I give him a shrug and turn around to face the stage, where the mayor of District Two is approaching the podium. He's an older man, a former victor named Montague who basically made all of the decisions within the Career pack during his Games. Conveniently also one of the mentors for this year.

He addresses District Two and begins reading the customary history of Panem. Everybody tunes it out, since it really doesn't even apply to District Two. The escort, Wilder Cain, a young man with sparkling white hair and eyes, is introduced.

I lean forward a bit, ready to make my move.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" he chirps. They _all_ say that. He sort-of prances over to the reaping bowl on the left, the girls' bowl. "Ladies first!" Again, as always.

He plucks a slip out of the glass bowl and carelessly opens it, knowing that the name inside doesn't really matter. "Sparta Mell-"

"I volunteer!" I spring forward a little, giving off the impression of a too-eager little girl who doesn't really know what she's getting into. I rock back on my heels. _Perfect_.

"Well, well, well." The escort smirks. Even _he_ thinks that I don't have a chance. "Come on up, missy."

The crowd parts ways and I walk up to the stage with a confident air. "What's your name?"

I'm sure to stare straight at my mother when I say, "_Emerald_ Honeycomb, your female District Two tribute."

"Alrighty then," says Wilder, skipping over to the boys' bowl. I give the cameras a wave and a shy-ish smile—let them figure _that_ one out—as he says, "And now for the gentlemen-"

"Cargo Montgomery!"

Oh, _really?_ This is fun. But no doubt there'll be a—

"I volunteer as the tribute of District Two."

—volunteer.

Naturally.

He comes up to the stage, a 6-foot muscle man with short brown hair and dark brown-black eyes and lots of freckles. Like most of the other Career-boys, not incredibly handsome. He glares at Wilder and then at me in turn. I raise an eyebrow and—remembering my angle—flash a friendly smile, looking him up and down.

A heavy weapons sort of guy, probably a wrestler and rock climber too. Maybe a runner, judging by his leg muscles? Definitely combat-trained, judging by his stance. He doesn't look arrogant, just confident and focused. Not the impulsive type at all. _Darn_.

Apparently his name is Marius Sheer, he's seventeen years old, and he is now officially my district partner. Montague comes back out again and reads the Treaty of Treason to the crowd while Marius and I stare each other down—his glare cold and serious, mine playful and taunting. We shake hands—he has a firm grip, as expected—and head off to the Justice Building for our goodbyes.

"Oh, honey, this is so _wonderful!_ You're gonna win this thing for _sure_, dear—just think of all that training you do, with the knives and bows and stuff! This is _amazing! _I can't _believe_ it! All my dreams are coming true! My _wildest dreams!_" Poor, poor Mom. I wonder what goes on in her head.

"My big sis the victor! This is so awesome! Wait till I tell all my friends! I'm gonna work extra hard in training so that I can be in the Games too!" Mint. Naïve little Mint. I can see why you'd act like I'd already won, but _please_ try not to make it all about you for once, _'kay?_

"Try to keep your head in there, Emmy. And don't lose yourself, no matter what." Thanks, Dad, for that _actually useful advice_. Though I'm not quite sure what "don't lose yourself" means... well, I'll try not to go insane, like that girl a couple years ago. You never know, though.

Pretty soon, they're whisked away and I'm left alone—apparently Montgomery couldn't bother himself to pay a call—and next thing I know, after a lot of waves and smiling, we're on a train to the Capitol.

_Nothing_ can stop me now.


	5. Reasons to Win: Marius Sheer, Two

**Sorry for the general blah-ness (and shortness) of this chapter, guys. I was feeling uninspired. Emotionally stable characters are much harder to write.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Marius's father is a Peacekeeper. So I guess that means sometime in 117 years the peacekeeper rules about not getting married or having children have changed... hmm... Good thing this is an AU fic.**

...

_Marius Sheer, District Two_

"You know, you're gonna make one fine tribute, boy."

I look up from my breakfast—cold cereal and eggs, not that it matters—to see Dad standing there, crossing his arms with a gruff sort of pride. "Mm," I mutter in reply, digging my fork into an egg.

"You're more level-headed than half the others out there, and much stronger," he continues. "Yeah, you'll dominate the competition."

"Sure, Dad." I give him a more vocal response, standing up.

"You boys ready?" Mom stands at the bottom of the stairs, Maria bouncing down the stairs behind her in her new Reaping dress. I nod in assent, and apparently Dad does too, because we're off.

I don't say much on the way there, mostly listen to Maria. "Why do you wanna go into the games, Marius?" she asks, half-serious. "I mean, you see what they go through in that arena. But I suppose the money and fame is worth it. And you're certainly ready. But what do you think the other tributes will be like? Your district partner, who do you think it'll be?"

I tune her out with my own thoughts. Why do I want to go into the Hunger Games in the first place? Why should I, of all people, win?

Well, for one, I'm ready. I'm prepared. This is what I've been training for practically all my life.

Two, to give Maria and the rest of my family a better life. I mean, we're not poor or anything, but Maria has no interest in training for the games or being a peacekeeper, and I'd rather not have her go into the mines, thank you very much. I guess she could take over my mother's job, running the mines, but still... A privileged life in the Victor's Village would be better for everyone concerned.

Three, of course, for Armen. Armen Block, the District Two male tribute last year, my best friend. Who died. 2nd place, while the girl from Eleven went free. So I've gotta get into that arena. To avenge him, you know.

We sign in, go off to our respective sections, wait as the mayor reads a bunch of documents on the history of Panem that we've all heard before. The escort is introduced (Wilder Cain, same old guy as usual), the girls' name picked. An obviously unprepared 14-year-old volunteers, a girl named Emerald. And then comes my moment.

"Cargo Montgomery!"

"I volunteer as the tribute of District Two," I follow on his heels.

I'm slightly taken aback by how powerful my own voice sounds. I walk up to the stage, feeling every eye in District Two trained on me.

Because I am going to the Hunger Games. I am going to be a tribute. I am heading off to the Capitol. I am entering the arena. Maybe I'll even win.

_Is this how Armen felt?_ I can't help thinking. Surely he was just as excited. And I remember seeing the joy in his face, and yet that focused intensity that got him so far...

My district partner, Emerald, gives me an odd look, and I realize that I must be glaring again. It seems to be my default mode. Or maybe I'm just angry about Armen. Whatever it is, she seems like she's about to burst into laughter about it. I furrow my brow. She cocks an eyebrow, and then looks me up and down, assessing her competition.

Wait a minute... she no longer looks as innocent as before. More calculating. Young or not, this is a tribute I've got to be careful not to underestimate.

As if sensing that I've broken through her facade, a foolish grin bursts across her face and she waves friendlily at me. But I'm not fooled. I glare at her even more.

Montague, the mayor of Two, and my mentor for this year, gets up and reads the Treaty of Treason as Emerald and I shake hands. Then we're whisked off to the Justice Building for our final goodbyes.

My family comes in first, of course, with all the usual fuss about how I'm going to be a great tribute and how I should remember my wits and never hesitate to kill, because that means I'm one step closer to coming home. After a while I tune them out, mostly because I heard it all this morning, and eventually they leave, to be replaced by Callia Whip.

Callia. I'm not exactly sure what to say about her. She's my... friend. I would say girlfriend, except we're not technically going out. I'm sure she knows that I like her and she's hinted that she likes me back, but... yeah. She was Armen's girlfriend before he went off to the games, so. Yeah. Awkward situation...

She sits there, staring at me for a moment, before saying quietly, "I can't believe it."

"What?"

"You." She inhales. "Marius, you saw what happened to Armen when he went into that arena. And now you're going off..."

"I'm doing it for him," I say after a pause. "You do realize that, right?"

She nods. "It's very... brave of you," she comments. "But—why? What good would it do?"

That's a question I've only glanced at, never lingering on, because I don't really know the answer. I just know that it's the right thing to do. "I have to try," I tell her, shrugging. "It just seems... right. It's what I have to do. It's a... thing... this is Two. We'll think of any reason to justify getting into the games."

I'm mildly shocked to hear these words coming out of my mouth, but I guess there's no going back. Callia takes in a few breaths and makes what sounds suspiciously like a sob. I'm puzzling over what to do next when the Peacekeeper in charge announces that it's Callia's time to leave.

"Wait," she tells him, and then pulls something out of her pocket. I almost flinch as I recognize it. A silver chain necklace. A gift from last year's tribute.

She places it into my palm. "The family gave it to me when he died. None of them found any use for it. Wear it in the arena, will you?" I nod. "Something to remember him by, in order to keep your goals in sight."

And then she kisses me lightly on the cheek. "Come home, Marius." And with that, she's out.

Callia Whip just kissed me on the cheek.

Callia Whip, Armen's former girlfriend, has kissed me.

Oh, God.

All the way to the train, I'm lost in some daze of confusion. Masked by focused glares, of course. I really don't know what else to do.

Callia Whip has just given me another reason to win. So win I will.


	6. Cosmic Equations: Thalia Trinket, Three

**Finally, some non-Careers! I'll try to update a couple times a week so we can get through these reapings faster...**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: The random mathematical stuff—yeah, x is pi to 100 digits, the first equation is a weird form of the quadratic equation, and I have no idea how this all fits into Three's machine speed. Ah, well.**

...

_Thalia Trinket, District Three_

My eyes snap open, and my hand reflexively goes to the scar on my nose. For a moment I'm too groggy to think about much, and then my brain snaps into motion.

_X = 3.14159265358 979323846264338 592307 8164062 862 0899862 803482534 21170 679_

_-b +/- the square root of b-squared – 4ac, all over 2a—that's the equation, if I remember correctly. So if we plug in the numbers, and then divide that by the number of machines..._

I'm vaguely aware of getting out of bed, slipping on some old dress for the reaping, and walking downstairs to eat breakfast. But—obviously—my mind is elsewhere. Running through an old plan that I thought up a few years ago, a way to make District Threes machines run faster _and_ more efficiently...

When I grow up, I want to be an inventor. I'm going to help Panem be better, help the districts produce more in quicker time, and this will, in theory, improve the quality of life in this country. I haven't worked out the details yet, but I'll find a way.

As soon as I get all these reapings over with...

_And then factoring in the energy... and how many gallons of oil do we get from Nine a year, again?_

"Thalia, honey? Are you all right?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, Mom, I'm fine." She sighs, and buries her head in who-knows-what paperwork. Mom and Dad are always preoccupied with work—which makes things very convenient for me, I guess...

_And that should do it... oil consumption reduced by 8%. As for speed, if we oil down the gears regularly... that would create more jobs, maybe?_

Someday I'd better write this all down and send it to the Justice Building. Maybe even the people in the Capitol. If I can help District Three, I'll be one more step on my way to helping everyone else.

I once tried to show them a plan that would chop wood faster for District Seven. It was quite a good plan, and a simple one, too. The official ripped it up. "You work for Three, girl, not for Seven! They don't need your help—we do! Keep working!"

Yep, not the best response. But someday it'll all work out.

As soon as I figure out this last equation...

I'm vaguely conscious of Bethanna, a chatty girl with limp blond hair who I suppose you could call my best friend, since we spend so much time together, coming to the door and we're walking to the city square for the reaping. She does most of the talking, so I have time for my thoughts to wander.

_But if we divide by (a – b)..._

We sign in, and head off together to the 15-year-olds' section. My glasses fall off my nose—apparently they had been sliding down the entire time—and I scramble to retrieve them. The mayor goes off on this rant about how great the Capitol is. Somewhere along the line he states the history of Panem, lists the past victors.

_No, no, no! You can't divide by (a – b) if a = b! That would be dividing by 0, and that would make the whole thing undefined! What were you thinking, Thalia?_

The escort, a bubbly, plump woman with lime green hair, trills that it's time to pick the tributes. She plucks a slip from each bowl and then carefully reads them aloud.

_But if you multiply by (a – b)... 0, that is..._

"Thalia Trinket and Link Anderson!"

_That all evens it out... to 0... everything nullified..._

I feel a slight nudge and turn to see Bethanna, speechless for once, motioning for me to go up.

Me. Going up. On stage.

I'm the tribute.

_I'm_ the...

W-w-what? No! This isn't...

I stumble up to the stage, exchanging a glance with my fellow tribute, a boy with a prosthetic leg whom I've never seen in my life, whose named I didn't manage to catch. We shake hands.

This isn't fair. I never... I'm not coming out of these games alive, I don't even know the first thing about survival...

But I've got my intelligence... And I hear that counts for a lot...

I'd better write down my formulas soon. Maybe they'll be of more note if I'm dead. Or maybe... if I'm a victor... they get to travel to other districts, right?

I take in a few deep breaths and focus. I'm going to get out of this arena. I'll use my wits, set traps, form plans, avoid capture...

I set my equations aside for the moment and start working on my strategy, gears of the mind turning furiously. This is _going_ to work out for me. It _has_ to.

It's all or nothing here.


	7. Calculating Odds: Link Anderson, Three

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: This tribute was created by my brother. Yes, my real-life brother. And if he keeps annoying me all summer, Link goes in the bloodbath! Got it, Nate? Okay, then.**

...

_Link Anderson, District Three_

I'm completely deaf in my right ear and my left leg is a prosthetic. Because of this, you might think that I have no chance winning the Hunger Games, or even surviving the bloodbath.

Maybe you'd be right. After all, who knows what could happen in that arena? And physical adeptness is certainly a big part of it.

But trust me, I've spent hours in front of the TV, watching, calculating, weighing the odds. Half the tributes that go in there are underfed and helpless. Others get plucked off by the Careers early on because they're threats. And arenas are generally pretty big, so the chances of me running into any tribute who isn't hunting me are relatively low. As for the arena itself, as long as I can find water and some edible plants I should be fine.

My disabilities might get me some pity sponsors. If I present myself as unusually intelligent, I might get even more. I've heard from my dad that there seems to be come "D3 Fan Club" in the Capitol. Oh yes, and my dad's privileged position as a District Representative in the Capitol might help.

So, depending on how things go, I have a pretty decent chance of making it in the arena. On top of that, the odds of my name being picked out of the thousands of District Three youth, many of whom take tesserae, are slim to none.

So why am I so scared? Why are my hands trembling as I sign in and walk over to the 15-year-olds' section? Why can't I bring myself to focus on anything but the fact that four slips in that glass bowl can send me to my doom?

Okay, relax, buddy. Things are going to be just fine. No need to panic. Pull yourself together. That is not going to be your—

"Thalia Trinket and Link Anderson!"

Yeah, who am I kidding?

I start forward, knowing that every expression counts. I try to keep my face neutral, to remain stoic. Maybe it'll even come off as calculating. I have a death grip on the old flash drive in my palm, which is now going to be my district token.

The girl, Thalia, takes even longer than me to get up to the stage, mostly because she was wrapped up in her own thoughts and apparently didn't hear it at first when her name was called. Absentminded. But I think I've heard my dad mention her a couple of times—something about trying to reprogram the machines? Is she a troublemaker?

Thalia gives me a glance that is hard to read—sympathy, perhaps? Worry? We shake hands as the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, a rather long list of the rights and rules of district citizens, and then we're escorted by Peacekeepers to the Justice Building, followed by cameras.

It'd be best to present myself as the underdog, of course, but I can't help being a little cocky and smiling for the cameras. It wins you sponsors early, and didn't I just calculate that my odds in the arena will be _ever_ in my favor, as the escorts say?

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.

I'm directed to a small room somewhere in the back of the building, a room not unlike my father's own office. He, of course, is the first to come in for a visit.

"Link!" He embraces me for a minute, and, despite my firm intentions to stay calm, I find myself shedding a few tears. "It shouldn't have come to this, I thought you were safe, I thought—with all those other kids taking tesserae—"

"Dad." I pull myself out of his big bear hug and look him in the eye. "I'm gonna fight, okay? I'll come home, I promise."

He frowns. "Oh, son, do you know how many tributes say that each year—"

"But I"m not the other tributes," I tell him. "I'm the underdog. And I'm smart. I'm the perfect balance of overlooked-by-competition and admired-by-sponsors. I've got this all planned out."

Dad chokes back some sound—a sob?—and hugs me again. As the Peacekeepers tell him his time is up, he nods and reassures me, "I'll try and get some of my Capitol colleagues to sponsor you, and I'll spend all my money. Hopefully luck will be on your side, my boy."

I suppose a good dose of luck wouldn't hurt my chances, either.

I have no other visitors—I've always been kind of a loner, anyway—so I just fiddle with my old flash drive and run over my plans in my head. I've got a few strategies for the interviews and training and the bloodbath and whatnot, prepared just for this very situation. Then the Peacekeepers come and collect Thalia and me and we walk to the train, ready to take us to the Capitol.

It's a luxury express that makes both my home—which isn't too bad, as far as district homes go—and the Justice Building look like wrecks. It's hard to see with the incessant flashing of cameras, but eventually we pull out of the station.

The escort, Octavia Bubbles, a woman who I can only describe as... bubbly, spends a good ten minutes gushing about how we're the best tributes she's worked with in a while and she hopes we'll give her a good show. Of course. Because we're only entertainment to these people.

Thalia seems rather lost in her own world, so it surprises me when she speaks. "Do you have paper and a pencil?"

Octavia's confused. "What?"

"Lots of paper," she says. "And a pencil. Or two, one might break..."

The escort smiles and rummages in her bag, pulling out a sparkly pink mini notebook and a matching pen. "This good enough for you, hon?" Thalia nods and sits down at the table. "Writing goodbye letters?"

I'm sure she meant it innocently, but it feels unnecessarily hurtful. I exchange a glance with Thalia, who shrugs after a moment and says, "Of a sort."

Has she already accepted her own death? Or is she trying to throw me off? I sit down in the chair next to her and peer over her shoulder. She's writing down a sequence of equations, some kind of mathematic proof involving oil and energy. The formulas for reprogramming the machines, perhaps?

Tributes in alliances, statistically, go farther in the games. Also, tributes who ally with their district partners have a distinctly higher probability of not being betrayed by said allies. It would have been a part of my plan anyway, but Thalia seems like the perfect fit for me. Competent, but trustworthy. Pretty naïve-seeming, people-wise, anyway.

"Want to be allies?"

She looks up at me, studying me for a moment before her face breaks into this wide grin. "Sure."

Step One: Complete.


	8. Glory Days: Carreen Haggerty, Four

**Sorry for the update delay. My family computer had to be replaced, and I've just been so busy... and I'm running out of Fun Facts that are actually related to the tributes.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Both District Four tributes were submitted by the same person.**

...

_Carreen Haggerty, District Four_

I've only told Lily about my plans to volunteer. Not Mom, not Ray, not even Cedric. Just Lily, my best friend since forever, and the person with whom I've been secretly training for the last few months.

Everybody else would try and bring me down, for sure. Well, more accurately, they would stand there in shock for a moment after hearing that I've been training, and then burst out with all kinds of objections. Perhaps the most prominent one being, "But, Carreen, you'll die!"

Yeah. I might. That's a very real possibility. But I'm also prepared for this. Perhaps not as much as some of the other Careers—I've only been training for _two months_, while they've had years—but more so than most of the other tributes. And I can swim better than any other 15-year-old in District Four.

The mayor reads off the list of past victors, as well as the mentors for this year. It's quite a long list, actually, if you count all of the ancient victors from the very beginning of Games history. However, most of our victors _were_ from ancient days, so only one girl—Quill Isotes, who won a few years ago—is alive to mentor. Her male counterpart and mentor for a long while, Gabriel Fells, died of a sudden heart attack last year. He was 90 years old, though.

Yeah, District Four's golden age has definitely passed. All thanks to the Second Rebellion, in which our victors played a large role. Annie Cresta. Mags Kilman. _Finnick Odair._

The mayor has finished with the history of Panem, and now our escort, a troubled man with a supposedly twisted mind and a sad half-smile, slowly walks up to the microphone and addresses the crowd.

"Hey, District Four. You ready to pick your tributes?"

Silence for a moment, and then a few half-hearted "yes"es sound from the crowd. Our escort always brings everything down. Again with the whole, "District Four is not as great as it used to be" theme.

"Ladies first." The man—I haven't bothered to learn his name, though I probably should—shuffles up to the first glass bowl and sticks his hand in. I lean forward a bit, getting ready to sprint. "Carreen Haggerty."

Whoa... well, that's convenient.

I jog forward at a light pace, still intent on showing the cameras that I'm strong, when I hear a few "I volunteer!"s coming from behind me. I pick up the pace, get to the stage first, and say, "No. I override the volunteers."

The escort looks at me curiously, and then turns to the boy's bowl. I give the cameras a triumphant, calculating look, and then watch my district partner get chosen.

His name is Gabriel Maddox, and nobody volunteers. He looks fit and strong, but I don't think he trained or anything. Probably from working on the docks. 17 years old, heavily muscled, tanned, like the stereotypical surfer. His eyes are a deep shade of blue that suggests a quiet, yet still intelligent, nature.

Maybe I'll ally with him.

We shake hands, and are shipped off to the Justice Building, where I'll have to face the questioning from my family. Of course, the first thing Ray says to me is, "What were you _thinking_, Carreen?"

I mumble something about how I _have_ been training, thank you very much. Ray frowns.

"Just when I get out of the reaping, my little sister goes and puts herself in! You could have at least waited until you're older, Carreen! How long have you even been training?"

"Two months," I mutter.

"Two—_two months!_ Carreen, you'll be in there with people who've been training for-"

"Years, their whole lives, I know, I know." I look up and glare at him. "This is something I want to _do,_ Ray. You're not going to stop me. And just you wait, I'll come back. I'll win the games and come back home."

Ray snorts, and is about to retort when my mom cuts in. "Let her, Ray." Her voice is quiet and gentle, and the look in her eyes almost makes me regret my decision.

Lily comes in next, mostly congratulating me for getting in. She wishes me luck, saying that she's both scared and excited for me at the same time. "That's exactly how I feel," I tell her with a laugh.

Cedric is last. He says very little, just sitting there with me in silence, before his face breaks into a small, sad smile and he presses something into my palm. I pull it back to look at it—a bracelet made of seashells and a sand dollar strung in the middle.

"I was going to give it to you on our six-month anniversary," he explains. "But that would happen during the games, so... wear it into the arena, okay? And think of me while you're there?"

I smile and give him a reassuring kiss. "I'll come back, Cedric. You know me."

"Carreen-"

"I'll come back."

He shakes his head with a smile, and whispers in my ear. "I have no doubt, love." He knows me too well. I have no other visitors.

I can feel the cameras and the crowd pressing in on me as we board the train and pull out of District Four, headed to the Capitol and all its glory.


	9. Expecting to Live: Gabriel Maddox, Four

**I have to apologize for the shortness, guys. I just really didn't want to go through another long, tedious reapings-preparation spiel.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Carreen and Gabriel's creator expanded the tribute profile to include mentors, stylists, prep teams, fears, chariot outfits, interview outfits, interview angles, and everything else I forgot to put in.**

…..

_Gabriel Maddox, District Four_

It isn't much of a surprise, really, when I'm reaped. I'm 17 years old, and I take enough tesserae to support eight people. My family's among the worst-off in the district, as well as one of the largest, and Irene and I are the only ones eligible for the financial aid that comes through the tessera system.

So, my family and I, we planned for this. Even though Careers are starting to come back to Four, we couldn't count on anyone volunteering. But I'm strong and fit, and I stand a fair chance in the Games. Better than half the others—the ones that aren't Careers, of course.

My family comes to visit me in the Justice Building. I pull Creston and Wave, the two-year-old twins who have little to no idea where their brother is going, onto my lap and smile warmly at everyone else. Mer, my six-year-old brother, looks like he's about to cry. He only knows a little about the Hunger Games. Triton, ten years old, who has been watching the games for a few years now, just looks grim. Irene stands next to her boyfriend, Keefe, and buries her head in his shoulder. He looks apologetically at me. Mom looks slightly stunned but regretful; Dad is obviously struggling to remain stoic.

There's silence for a few moments, and then I speak. "If I win, we'll all get to live in the Victor's Village."

Mom nods, but no one says anything.

I continue. "But if I'm...gone...which won't happen," I assure them, "...if that happens... they give you some money for my funeral arrangements. Just set my casket out to sea, no need for anything big. Use the money to feed them. Since Irene won't be eligible for tesserae anymore..."

My sister looks up briefly, and then down again, grabbing Keefe's hand tighter.

I turn to Triton. "Maybe you could get a dock job or something? It doesn't have to be much. I don't want you doing any heavy lifting. But we need something to hold us up. Keefe? Maybe you could..."

He nods silently, clutching Irene's hand tighter.

"And, if somebody could teach Mer to fish... I know it's not allow, but there's plenty of them in the ocean, right? Maybe going onto the docks or something... no, never mind."

See, this is why I have to get home. What would they do without me? I'm their main source of income, and we're barely able to keep our house as it is.

But I'm strong. I can handle this. I know what the Hunger Games are like. And I've got Quill Isotes as my mentor, who won her Games so quickly... if I could do the same, I could be home in seven days.

After a while, my dad speaks. "Your district partner... you're allying with her, right?"

This catches me by surprise. I was planning to work alone, especially since Carreen is a Career and I'd rather not run with the alliance that has the highest level of sociopathy, on average. "Maybe. I don't know."

"She's the daughter of Daniel Haggerty," he continues. "The man I used to work for. The captain who died in the fire saving us."

Now that he mentions it, I remember Carreen had a long, large burn scar on her leg. I had thought she might have been caught in that fire, but I didn't know she was the captain's daughter. The captain whose death caused my parents to be out of jobs.

"Work with her, all right?" he asks. "It'll get you farther, trust me."

"Whatever you say, Dad." Honestly, I'm more of a lone wolf than a team player, but I can't exactly refuse my dad.

No one else comes to visit me. I don't have many friends—one of the many downsides to working all the time.

We board the train, cameras following us all the way. I look at Carreen, with her dirty blond hair, calculating gaze, agile body, and large, very conspicuous burn going down her leg. She seems to be just as annoyed with the cameras as I am.

"You Careering?" she asks me after the train pulls out of the station.

I look up at her. Her expression is hard to read. "I dunno. Maybe."

"Ally with me, at least?"

Well, that was easy. I guess she was thinking a similar way as my dad. "Sure. If you'll take me with you when the alliance splits up."

The corner of Carreen's mouth twitches and she almost-but-not-quite smiles. "Sure."


	10. Running Refugee: Teagan Stratus, Five

**Finally, out of the Careers! No more overconfident ax-crazy blood knights! ...at least, not as high a concentration of them...**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: This tribute's creator, an anonymous reader, wrote the "Family/Background" section in story format.**

…..

_Teagan Stratus, District Five_

Over the last two months, my sister has broken down almost completely, acting sometimes as if she were seven, instead of seventeen. I can't blame her, although sometimes I get tired of having to assure her that we're fine every five minutes.

Today, on Reaping Day, she is completely dysfunctional. As I pull her down the stairs to get breakfast, she's screaming hysterically, thrashing about, and eventually falling to the floor and just sobbing. Oh, God...

"Kari." I bend down next to her and whisper into her ear in an attempt to calm her down. "Kari, we're fine, we're safe, nobody can get us here, they don't even know about us..."

"B-b-but-" she sputters, collapsing again to the floor. "Th-th-the-the Hunger Games! Th-th-the C-C-C-Capitol is going to f-find us and th-th-then it'll b-be o-o-o-"

"Shhh, Kari." I wrap my arms around her shoulders. "We're safe."

It's all a lie, of course, but better for Kari to be ignorant of the actual extent of the danger we're in. As soon as we sign in to the Reaping, the Capitol is immediately alerted to our presence here and can track us at all times. And if one of us gets called into the Games... there's no hope.

No, stop thinking about that, Teagan. That kind of thinking won't do you or Kari any good. You have to remain strong, all right? All right. Okay. Now get Kari breakfast.

"Is everything all right down there, girls?" Uncle Denison calls from upstairs.

"It's... good," I reply, hoping that he'll know what to make of Kari's latest breakdown. He just sighs and I hear a thud as his feet hit the floor. "I'm coming, Tea, hold on."

I take Kari's hand and lead her into the kitchen, where she sits down in one of the chairs and puts her head down on the table, sobbing. I rummage through the cabinets for some food and come out with three ration packet meals, one for each member of the family, which should sustain us for the day. I hand one to Kari—more like toss it in her direction, since she doesn't really respond—and then sit down and start on my own.

Uncle Denison enters, yawning, and then takes sight of Kari and me. He strides over to Kari and crouches down, trying that whispering-that-she's-safe thing that I tried earlier. It seems to work better when he does it, because Kari lifts her head up and takes in a few deep breaths. But then again, our "Uncle" Denison is one of Five's few child psychologists, whose job is mostly to calm our children down so that they'll be functional enough to do research work.

Technically, Kari has a job as Denison's personal assistant, but that's mostly for the purposes of appeasing the Capitol overseers who frown upon dysfunctional 17-year-olds who do nothing to help the district all day. Mostly, Kari is allowed to wander around the house doing what she wants, except when Uncle Denison has to report to the district supervisors, during which Kari just stands with him holding a bunch of folders and tries to remain professional-looking. For the most part, it works.

"Teagan, you'd better get dressed for the Reaping," says Uncle Denison. "I'll get Kari ready; you worry about yourself."

I nod, and head up the stairs to my small corner of a room that Kari and I share. We didn't make it out of our old house with much, but Uncle Denison has managed to get us some new clothes, including Reaping dresses. Mine is a soft grayish sort of shade, nothing too fancy, but presentable enough. I slip it over my head and run my fingers through my short hair, thinking.

The Capitol is going to put one of us in the Games, for sure. I've seen it happen before. Disobedient genius-children trying to use their research against the Capitol. The children of adult scientists doing the same. The sons and daughters of those who used their contacts in other districts to instigate a rebellion. They all get reaped, some way or another, to save the glorious Capitol and punish those who do not honor its superiority.

People like my parents, who didn't do a good enough job of concealing their hatred...

I take in a few deep breaths. Kari would never be able to handle the Hunger Games. She'd break down completely and go mad, and that would _not _help her chances of survival.

But what about me? I'm smart and resourceful, and relatively fast. I know how to think under panic, and I've brushed with life-threatening situations several times. Why couldn't I win the Hunger Games?

Because the Capitol wants you dead, stupid. And what the Capitol wants dead, they kill. Besides, you don't even know how to wield a weapon.

"You ready, Tea?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," I mutter, coming down the stairs and heading off to the lottery of doom with my sister in tow.

We sign in and head off to our respective sections. Uncle Denison tells me he's going to go keep Kari calm, and I'm left alone, staring at the giant glass bowl that held my fate. Would my name be drawn? Would Kari's?

I don't pay much attention to the mayor's speeches or even the presentation of the victors, mostly because a million thoughts are racing around in my head. Strategies for the Games, what to do if Kari were picked, ways to avoid it if anyone asks, "Hey, who are you and where are your parents?"

The escort flounces up, a woman named Thesaura desperately trying to sound intelligent to the population of District Five, which never falls for her act. "Salutations, Region Quintessential!" she squeaks, and I notice my knees start to shake. "It is the hour for us to decide whom is chosen to traverse to the Capitol!"

She sticks her hand in the bowl rather carelessly, stops to straighten her glasses, and draws out the name. I brace myself.

"Our fortunate pistillate tribute this twelvemonth is... Teagan Stratus!"

_Well, at least it's not Kari. That would have been..._

_Oh my God oh my God oh my..._

_Relax. Calm down. You can't let them know you're afraid..._

_Hell, I'm never making it out of there alive..._

_Run, hide, learn to work a knife, run at any sight of danger, learn to hunt, eat off berries... smart and resourceful and relatively fast, able to think in a panic, a survivor in life-threatening situations..._

My body has reflexively run up to the stage, skidding to a stop at the top of the stairs. I take in a few quick, short breaths, and then stare at Thesaura, almost uncomprehending. She breaks out into a grin. "Teagan Stratus, everyone!"

Oh... God. I'm going to the Hunger Games.

I hear a strangled cry from the 17-year-old section and close my eyes lightly. Kari. She's not going to be able to stand me dying on national television. She'll break down for sure, just like she is right now. "Kari, calm down," I whisper automatically, even though she can't hear me. "Kari, it's going to be fine. Kari, Uncle Denison will make sure everything's all right." This calms me down somewhat.

Thesaura reaps the boy, Veras Valdez, a thin, small, quiet boy with intelligent green eyes, and then we're shipped off to the Justice Building. My final goodbyes consist mostly of trying to calm down Kari while giving some instructions to Uncle Denison. Kari manages to collect herself enough to give me a kiss and say "goodbye, Teagan" before bursting into tears. Uncle Denison murmurs, "I hope to see you again, Tea," while ushering Kari out the door.

The rest of the hour is spent in silence, with me trying to sort out my thoughts. Once they release me from the room I'm running and running and running towards the train, through the rows of cameras trying to snap a photo. I outrun them all and throw open the doors to the train cabin, bursting through room after room and finally settling in an empty kitchen cabinet and curling up into a little ball.

It's just like being in the tunnels again. I really don't want to go where I'm going, but there's no other choice, and I'd rather be here than there.

The train whistle blows, and we're off.


	11. Only Logical: Veras Valdez, Five

**Again, sorry for the shortness, although many of you said that you liked the length of the last few chapters I deemed "too short."**

**Announcement: _Survival_ now has its very own TV Tropes Page! TV Tropes is a website that catalogues fiction devices used in the media, which includes fanfiction. The link to _Survival_'s page can be found on my profile, under "Story Extras".**

**Announcement #2: A forum for discussing _Survival_ is in the creation. Look out for that—I'll give you the name when it's up and running.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Veras Valdez was one of the last tributes submitted, if not _the_ last. I honestly can't remember...**

…..

_Veras Valdez, District Five_

Due to the nature of its industry, or perhaps its remote location, District Five is known for generating its own atmosphere. Cold. Clinical. Intellectual. Quiet. Calculating. Slightly snobbish, according to some.

This is where a person like me fits right in. Cold, clinical, calculating Veras Valdez. Quietly proud, passive-aggressive, excessively cold to the point of almost being antisocial. Logical and level-headed; ready to face the world with knowledge alone.

I know that there are many faults in that mindset, and I'm trying the best I can to eradicate them from my personality, even though I know it's hopeless. Personalities don't change, not when they're as deeply-set as mine, and I shouldn't focus on things I can't do. I generally like to avoid fights that I can't win. Besides, I like my brain. It's a good brain, faults or no.

I turn my attention back to the stage, where the District Five mayor has just finished up his speeches on the history of Panem—obviously at least partially fabricated—and is now introducing the escort, Thesaura Dictionarian. I inwardly groan.

"Salutations, Region Quintessential!"

Ah, _no_. You may have looked up near-synonyms of "Hello, District Five!", but as a whole, that technique does _not_ make you sound intelligent. Especially not in a district full of scientists, mathematicians, and generally smart people who can see through that ruse a mile away.

"It is the hour for us to decide whom is chosen to traverse to the Capitol!"

I wonder if she changed her name specifically to thank the two books that she seems to be abusing as Foreign Language Translation Guides.

Thesaura sticks her arm in, stops to straighten her over-the-top "nerd" glasses that have become the symbol for Five in the Capitol, and draws out a slip.

"Our fortunate pistillate tribute this twelvemonth is... Teagan Stratus!"

As usual, the vocabulary makes me cringe, but before I can analyze it further a girl comes running out of the crowd a few yards away from me. The Peacekeepers all brace themselves to drag her back up to the stage, but to my surprise she's actually running _towards_ it. She sprints up the stairs and glares at the escort for a few moments. "Teagan Stratus, everyone!"

Teagan Stratus looks fairly normal. She's fifteen years old, like me, with chin-length brown hair, dark blue eyes, and an olive complexion. But, judging by her sprint to the stage, she's either an easily-frightened girl with a strong impulsive streak and strange reflexes or some kind of sociopath who can't wait to get to the Games. They're equally likely.

Some girl in the 17-year-olds section, presumably related to Teagan, lets out a scream and crumples to the ground. While some people tend to her, Thesaura pulls the boy's name out of the glass jar.

"Veras Valdez!"

Wait a minute... no, it can't be. The Hunger Games only happen to other people, right? I can't possibly be—I mean, I don't have any tesserae! There were four slips in there with my name in them, out of the whole district! Granted, it's a relatively small district, but...

And now I'm going to die!

Okay, calm down. You can't think like that. Grow up. You _ will_ be able to get out of the Games, as long as you stay rational. Now head up there onto the stage. Act confident.

I shake hands with Teagan, who seems to be whispering something to herself—probably a coping mechanism—and we're marched off to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. I think about the task at hand.

With this brain, I, as the District Five male tribute, must survive the Hunger Games. No small feat, in an arena where logic is designed to go against you and most decisions are made off of primitive instincts. But I can work with it. As long as I keep my head and don't fall into any obvious traps.

I'll do anything I have to in order to survive. Even if it means closing off any human emotions like pity or anything, I will be strong and survive. Because I know how the Games work. You don't get to stay whole if you come out of there. Your emotions fall to pieces, or you die trying.

People don't win the Hunger Games. They just survive. And that's what I'll do.

My parents and my friend Sid come in to visit me. After all the pointless weeping is done with, I tell them about my plans. They seem to agree with me, if looking a little forlorn. But it's preferable to me dying.

When they let us out of the Justice Building, my district partner Teagan runs to the train and goes to hide in one of the cabinets. None of us disturb her—she must be frightened out of her wits.

She's scared. And so am I. The difference between us is that I'm not going to let it affect anything.

I am Veras Valdez of District Five. I am cold, clinical, calculating, logical, _ruthless_. And cunning will come out on top.


	12. Ready or Not: Mary Telva, Six

**Announcement: The _Survival _forum is now up! Check it out at .net/forum/Survival/93586/.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: At 12 years old, this tribute ties for the youngest (the other is the D7 girl), while her district partner is the oldest, as the only 18-year-old. There are no 13-year-olds, three 14-year-olds, seven 15-year-olds, seven 16-year-olds, and four 17-year-olds. All in all, a slightly messed-up bell curve, but not as messed-up as some I've seen.**

…..

_Neetamarie Telva, District Six_

On the morning of my first reaping, I wake up early—not that I'd had much sleep the night before—and walk outside into our garden. By "garden", I mean a laughably tiny plot of land on which I've planted a few scattered flower seeds and water sometimes when we have it. Despite the lack of proper conditions, the flowers tend to grow pretty well, having adapted to the desolate environment of District Six, and in the early morning sunlight, they look beautiful.

This morning, a butterfly has wandered its way through the streets and is now delicately perched on top of one of the dandelions. It's a small, fragile creature, not particularly showy but exquisite nonetheless, with fluttery white wings tipped with silver. I bend down and watch it for a minute, reveling in its beauty. Although it could technically be counted as wasting time, it's better than dwelling on what's going to happen today.

Today, my name goes in a big glass bowl along with all the other girls in Six—several times, since I've taken some tesserae for my family—and one slip will be picked out of that bowl, to be sent to the Capitol and to the Hunger Games. That name might be mine. I might go into the Games. Which means I might die.

Because, like my pretty little butterfly perched on the flower, I won't last long. I'm too fragile, I'm too tiny, I look like I'm eight years old and I have no training with weapons and, even though I know a thing or two about plants, which might supply food, I know nothing about surviving in the wilderness. There's no _wilderness_ in Six, just power plants.

"Mary, Mary, Mary!" Devine comes running up to me on her little six-year-old legs, grinning innocently. "Whatcha doin', Mary?"

I ruffle her short, strawberry-blond tuft of hair and try to put on a smile. "Hey, Devine. I'm just watching the butterfly."

"Oooh!" She stares at the butterfly for a moment and reaches forward to try and touch it. I pull her hand back gently. "Devine, you can't touch it. It's very delicate."

"Aw." She pouts. I ruffle her hair again and try and send her back inside. I just want to be alone right now, because my nerves are already frayed as it is. Devine goes into the house, but then comes right back out again with an insistent, "Mary, Mary! Whatcha dooooin'? Why won't you play with me, Mary?"

I sigh. "Dev, it's a very special day and I'm nervous. I might get picked to go the Capitol, and I'm scared. It'd really be nice if you left me alone right now. All right?"

Devine just stares at me, wide-eyed and uncomprehending, and I know I'm in for a stressful day. "But Mary, I wanna _play!_"

"All right." I sigh again. "What do you want to play?"

"Hide and go seek!" she says triumphantly. "You hide, I seek. And when I find you, I hide and you seek."

"Okay, Dev." She closes her eyes and begins counting. Loudly. I sprint across the garden, careful not to step on any flowers or butterflies, and find a hiding spot behind our kitchen counter. It's the same spot I always go to, and neither Dev nor anybody else has found me yet. Although Yesh and Quinette don't even try anymore.

"Ready or not, here I come!" she shrieks.

I let out my breath, which I hadn't realized I had been holding. If I went to the Games, I would probably try and just hide, eating dandelions or something and trying not to be found. Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't. I might get sponsors—the younger, less well-off children usually get pitied more.

"_Mary!_" my mother calls, and I scamper out, much to Devine's surprise. Mom stares at me disapprovingly for a moment, and then clucks her tongue and says, "Your breakfast is ready. You should probably get changed for the reaping soon, we'll be heading out in about an hour."

"'Kay, Mom."

Yesh and Quinette come down the stairs. Quin just looks annoyed, but when he sees me Yesh softens up, pats my head, and says, "Don't worry about a thing, Mary. There are thousands of slips in that bowl, and both Quin and I went through all the years without being picked. You'll be fine." I nod, and he pulls out two bowls or cereal for himself and Quin.

I miss the days when he used to pay attention to me, but now—except for when I'm particularly scared or needy, like today—he only talks to Quin, who hates everybody except Yesh. I get that they're married and all, but that's no excuse for shutting out the rest of your family.

I change into a faded pink dress—a hand-me-down from my mother when she was twelve, which is why it's a bit too big for me—and wash my face and hair. We head off, and I can't help but notice that I'm shaking all over.

I sign in to the twelve-year-old section and immediately pick out my friend, Margaret Abble. She's hard not to miss, seeing as she's the only one in the group that wheels instead of walks. We don't say much to each other, mostly caught up in our own thoughts, but right before the mayor begins his speech, she whispers to me, "Good luck, Mary. If you get picked, remember that you're strong. You saved me from under the voltage machine, remember? You saved my life."

Yes, but the Hunger Games aren't about saving lives, they're about taking them. And that's something I can't do. But nevertheless, I feel a little bit better. Margaret's good at things like that. And maybe, in a few years, if I get a little stronger... maybe I'll actually be prepared for this.

The mayor begins his speech about the Capitol and about District Six and its victors. We've had more than other districts, except for the Careers, ever since the Second Rebellion. After the initial punishments, the tide turned for District Six and we had a string of victors, all who won by intelligence and the ability to hide...

Our escort, Taffeta Allends, walks to the stage and shrieks, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor! Ladies first!"

I hold my breath, and Margaret squeezes my hand gently. It's fine, it's going to be okay, I'm going to be fine, Yesh survived it, Quin survived it, I'm going to...

"_Neetamarie Telva _is our lucky lady! Come on up, Neetamarie!"

W-w-w-w-what? N-n-no! T-t-this wasn't s-supposed to happen...

My mouth drops open in shock, my face pales, and I manage to squeak out, "Eep."

_Ready or not, here I come!_


	13. Next to Normal: Eadem Ordinaria, Six

**Halfway through the Reapings, guys! Whoo-hoo!**

**Sorry for the slight delay. I had trouble getting this chapter out, but I should be back on track in no time. For all you Americans, happy (belated) Independence Day! For the Canadians, happy (very belated) Canada Day! And for the rest of you, I hope you enjoyed July 4th/1st!**

**In case any of you missed my announcement last chapter (which is suspect most of you did): _The Survival forum is now up and running._ Since the website doesn't handle links well, just go onto my profile page and scroll down to the bottom, under "Story Extras". The link should be there.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Eadem's mother's first name is Mary-Sue. Yes, like _that_ kind of Mary-Sue. But I think you'll find her much more... _interesting_... than that...**

…..

_Eadem Ordinaria, District Six_

The girl, Neetamarie, gasps a little and lets out a squeak. For a moment she just stands there. A long moment, actually. The Peacekeepers have to help her up onto the stage. Not because she's resisting or trying to run away, she's just so shocked that she can't move.

"Any volunteers?"

No, of course there are none. It just doesn't work that way, not in Six.

"And now for the boys..."

This is it. After this, I can go home and get a job and move out of the house and live my life free of the Hunger Games... this is it, my last year...

"Eadem Ordinaria!"

...No!

"Come on up, Eadem!"

I shuffle my feet forward, looking down at my shoes. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This was my last year. This isn't right, this isn't fair, this isn't...

_"This isn't normal."_ The words of my mother come flooding back to me._ "Eadem, you want to be normal, right? Well, this isn't it. Go back inside. Eadem, be normal for me,_ please? _Eadem, I _need _you to stay NORMAL!"_

My mom is ... strange, to say the least. It runs in the family.

I climb up the stairs and stand on the edge of the stage, looking up with what I hope is a determined look on my face. Inside, I just feel defeated. I've been defeated. That wasn't something that was supposed to happen...

"Any volunteers?"

No volunteers. This is Six, remember.

"Okay, then! I introduce to you our amazing tributes of District Six, Neetamarie Telva and Eadem Ordinaria!"

Above the crowd's half-hearted applause, I can almost hear my mother whispering to herself. "Where did I go wrong? Why is he up there? It wasn't supposed to be like this... we were supposed to be just another ordinary family..."

They take us to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. Before I know it, my mom rushes in and screeches something about Normality and Ordinariness and "Why, why, why did that death lottery take that away from us! It was our only hope!"

I squeeze the piece of rubber in my pocket-which I guess has become my district token-and hang on for the ride. My mom is a little insane every day, but this time she's borderline hysterical. It feels like I'm being electrocuted over and over and over again, and I grip the rubber tighter and tighter and tighter...

It's just a piece of random trash that I found on the street one day. But, when my mom descends with her demands to be "ordinary", it is my lifeline.

She pauses, and I know she's waiting for me to agree with her. But I don't. Because I'm tired of her being, well, you know.

"Mom," I say quietly. "We're not normal. Okay? We're strange. It's not something we can help. So just... accept it, and maybe we can move on?"

Mom blinks for a few seconds, uncomprehending. And then she bursts into tears.

"Eadem, what have you done?" calls the flat voice from the doorway. Oh, great. The other half of the insane couple that spawned me. The deserter. My dad.

I shrug. "I figure life'll never be the same after this, so I might as well break the news to her."

"Hm." He frowns, and continues to linger in the doorway until Mom is dragged out by the Peacekeepers, screaming, "I just want to be NORMAL!"

"Well, then," I say, looking him in the eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, as if he doesn't like me (which he doesn't) and just wants to get away from me (which he does).

"Um, yeah, son..." He trails off quietly, hoping I'll fill in the blanks for him. I don't give him that luxury.

"Yes, _Dad?_"

"Um, well, good luck, I guess," he mumbles, looking away. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry we didn't get to see each other as often as I wanted to... I'm sorry I left... you with your mother... I'm sorry..."

I narrow my eyes. No amount of "I'm sorry"s are going to cut it with me. Why do you only say these when I'm about to go fight for my life? Do you think they'll encourage me or something?

After a while, he runs out of things to say, and I really don't want to talk to anybody right now. So we sit in silence for the rest of the hour (I have no other visitors), and then he leaves.

Neetamarie and I head off to the train, and I scowl at the cameras, still thinking about how messed-up my life is. Why can't I just be—no. No. You're not thinking that. _Never_ think that.

My name is Eadem Ordinaria. I was Eadem Lovett. My mother wants us to be normal, to the point of insanity. My father abandoned us and is lousy in trying to make it up. I have been electrocuted, and it is not fun. I carry around a piece of rubber trash. It is the only part of me that cannot be defeated. But, in the Games, I will not be defeated. I will win this one.

Because I am _not_ normal. I am crazy.


	14. Artemis and Nemesis: Bri Geers, Seven

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: The whole district-culture thing about Greek myths and fairy tales comes from the fanfics of aimmyarrowshigh, who did such an amazing job fleshing out her universe that I felt obligated to steal from it just so I could mention it in my A/Ns. **

…..

_Briana Renay Geers, District Seven_

There's a story we like to tell, here in Seven. It's a strange, old story that really doesn't fit in with the rest of our folklore, but it's my favorite one. It's about a goddess-huntress who stays eternally young and defends the wilderness and its people with her arrows, a girl named Artemis.

A newer part of the legend says that Artemis trained the rebel Katniss Everdeen and went into hiding when she died. It says that, when Artemis comes back, she will train another girl in her huntress ways and bring her into the Games to bring down the Capitol.

Understandably, the Peacekeepers don't particularly like this legend. That's why we don't tell it around them.

I'm a huntress, so this story is particularly dear to my heart. I go out into the woods each night with a hunting knife, a crude homemade bow and arrows, and my best friend A.J. We're both only 12 years old, but we've been doing it since we were six. _In Seven, _my momma likes to say, _they make sure you grow up fast._

A.J. and I were out there last night, bringing down a few rabbits, which we divided up among us. A.J. sees well in the dark, much better than I do, but I'm good at trap-setting and finishing off the game once A.J. has them wounded. I try not to think much about the fact that I'm taking a life, mostly because I'm so hungry.

We talk afterward, quietly so the Peacekeepers can't hear us. It's our first reaping, both of us, and despite being among the toughest hunters of Seven, we're both scared out of our wits. Maybe it's the dark, night air or the eerie sounds of the woods, but there's a chilling sense of foreboding when A.J. says to me, "What if one of us gets picked?"

Now, in the light of day, that all seems silly. If I got picked—which is unlikely, compared to all the older kids who take tesserae for their large families—I would just use my hunting skills to get out. I know how to work several weapons _and_ hunt _and _set traps, which is more than most kids my age can say. The only people I'll have a problem with are the Careers, and if I stay out of their way and let them finish each other off...

...then I'm out of the Games. Simple, right? All I have to do is survive, which is what I do best.

Our reaping takes place late in the morning, so I have a rare chance to sleep in. I manage to get a few more hours of sleep before Mom calls at me to wake up and get dressed. I slip on an old dress that Maria wore a few years ago, lace up my hunting boots and walk downstairs.

It's an unusually quiet morning. We're all nervous about the reaping, so we don't talk much. Just eat, brush hair, wash up, and head out. I meet A.J. a few blocks away and we veer off to the 12-year-olds section.

"Bri?" A.J. finally says to me as we settle down into the crowd. "Good luck."

"You too, A.J.," I say, and squeeze his hand. We're not in love or anything, just really close best friends, even closer since that incident in the woods five years ago... Anyway, the thought of possibly losing him to the Games is unbearable.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Seven, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" pipes the escort, Aliena Candlewick. She laughs quickly for no reason at all, and then continues, "So, let's pick our lucky girl, shall we?"

"Lucky indeed," I mutter to A.J., mostly to hide my growing nervousness.

The escort nods, laughs again, and then draws the first little piece of paper she touches from the glass bowl. "Briana Geers!"

Oh-

That's me. Briana Renay Geers. Bri for short. Bri, who won't go down without a fight.

I walk up to the stage, trying to look calm when inside I'm a desperate mess trying to piece everything together. Why is this happening? What will happen to me? But, in the end, I manage to make it work and even give a little eyebrow raise to the cameras. There. Let them figure that out.

Aliena claps her hands and laughs yet another time, flouncing over to the other side of the stage to pick the boy's name. Che Botill, a 17 year old boy who goes to my school and is one of my brother Kyle's friends, is picked. He's a big boy, and sturdy too, and as he walks to the stage he bursts into a big smile. At first this disturbs me, and then I remember Kyle talking about how he's a joker and he never means any of the creepy things he says. But still...

We head off to the Justice Building, to say goodbye to our families. I promise them all that I'll try my hardest to come home, but it still isn't enough to keep them from crying. I have to stay strong for them. I have to protect them, like Artemis...

A.J. comes in after my family leaves. We sit there in silence for a few minutes, like at the reaping only more poignant this time. Eventually he says, "Shoot straight, Bri. Come home for me."

"I'll try."

"More than try, Bri. You have to want it more than anything else in the world. Think of your dad. Don't just win for me or your family-win for your dad."

This gives me pause. A.J. usually never mentions my dad because he knows it's the one thing that upsets me. My dad, who went out into the woods at the wrong time. My dad, who I watched die. Who I watched get stabbed by a man I never knew, as A.J. and I hid in the bushes, unable to do anything. _"Mr. Geers?" ... "Who is this?"... _I can't even remember the name, but I know he said it.

_Come home to avenge your dad, Bri. Win for him, kill the others like you wished you killed that murderer..._

Suddenly I'm reminded not of Artemis in her protector form, but in her angry form, her vengeful form. One man saw her bathing and laughed; she turned him into a deer and hunted him down, killing him with an arrow to the neck. There was another goddess, too, the patroness of revenge... Nemesis.

I will be Artemis and Nemesis, the protector and the killer. I will go into the Hunger Games and I will kill. I'll do anything it takes.

"Thank you, A.J." It's barely a whisper.


	15. To The Gallows: Che Botill, Seven

**A shorter one this time. Ah, well.**

**Warning: This tribute was described by his creator as "uproariously funny". I can't do that, at least not on command. So—just pretend, okay? Thanks.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Che Botill was submitted by Vividly Visceral, best known around this fandom for her epic _The Capitol Games_, which is highly regarded as the Almighty Ruler of SYOTs. I am unworthy.**

…..

_Che Botill, District Seven_

"So. I'm thinking about becoming a serial killer today."

I take a long smoke out of my pipe and look over at my friends, grinning mischievously.

Jackson frowns. "Dude. Not funny. Not so close to the Games."

"What? Serial killers are funny on any other day of the week, but not on the reaping? Not so close to the Games?"

"Yes," Nate says flatly, effectively cutting off any form of argument. He limps up to us, face solemn.

"What, did I strike a nerve or something?" I wrinkle my brow and twirl my pipe around.

"Dude. It's _reaping _day," Jackson says, still frowning. "We're legally obligated to be depressed, in respect for two very unfortunate souls who, in all likelihood, will die horribly."

"Oh," I say. "Sorry. Just trying to, y'know, lighten the mood."

"With casual jokes about_ serial killers_." Nate snorts incredulously. "Really?"

"Hey, gallows humor, right?" I throw my arms up defensively. "And, guess what, everybody's going to die at some point, so I might as well speed it up, eh?" Jackson looks appalled, Nate condescending. "Joke, 'kay?"

"Che?" says Nate after a moment.

"What?"

"Your jokes suck on reaping day," he informs me. "Every other day of the year you're a nice, hilarious guy, but on reaping day, you fail in the most epically pathetic way."

"Gee, thanks," I say with another grin. "That _really_ makes me feel better."

"Don't mention it!" Nate says with a half-hearted laugh. "You needed to know, right?"

Honestly? I'm just really tense, inside. It's my second-to-last year of the reaping and the odds are that I'll never get picked and still I'm tense. Because the odds can change at any moment, and the Hunger Games loom over us all like a threatening cloud of epic doom. But me, I try and laugh it off. It's the only thing that keep me from being scared out of my wits.

And it's not _my_ fault that my best friends find my reaping-day humor inappropriate.

"Here's my section," says Nate as he splits off of the group with my brother Bo'. "Good luck!" I call after them, and settle down in the 17-year-olds section with Jackson. Sean, my other brother, goes to the 18-year-olds section with a smile. Lucky kid, it's his last reaping. The rest of us have got a few more years to wrestle with it.

The mayor goes on with his speeches about history and victors and treaties and such. Nobody really listens, since we've heard it in school every single year since we were six. No, five. Eventually the mayor stops (probably sensed that nobody was listening anyways) and introduces our escort, Aliena Candlewick. I hear she's distantly related to one of the first presidents of Panem, but I could care less.

Aliena seems to be obsessed with giggling, since she inserts one after every single sentence. "Happy Hunger Games, District Seven, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" Giggle. "So, let's pick our lucky girl, shall we?" Giggle. "Briana Geers!"

Oh. I know Bri. She's Kyle's little sister, the one who hunts. I've always wanted to try hunting, but then again, I'm not a rule breaker, no matter how many people disregard that rule.

Bri walks up to the stage, looking surprised yet strong. She cocks her eyebrow at the camera—smart girl, already playing the audience for sponsors—and then turns to the escort, who's heading over to the boys' bowl.

Bri is only twelve years old. She shouldn't be up there, already fighting for her life. It's just not fair.

"Che Botill!"

T-that's me.

That's _me._

I stand there, dazed for a moment, and then I break out into a grin and walk up to the stage, looking confident. There's no reason why Bri should be the only one to play the audience.

The mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, which is so antiquated it almost doesn't even apply to us anymore, and Bri and I shake hands. She has a firm grip, but so do I. And I'm going to be the one coming home.

We march off to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. My family stands around in an awkward silence before Bo' says, "I guess you were right, Che."

"About what?"

"This morning. You said 'I bet I can get Reaped faster than you.' You were right." Ma and Dad frown, and so do I.

Curse you, irony. I was only trying to make a joke.


	16. Bright Side: Parker Bates, Eight

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: This tribute's father, Sheldon, is named after the character from the TV show "The Big Bang Theory." Look out for references!**

…..

_Parker Bates, District Eight_

"So, you see, Parker, it's even _more_ statistically unlikely that you will get picked this year than the other years, given our escort's tendency to mix it up and then pick from the top. You have three slips—no tesserae—which, combined, take up approximately-"

"Thanks, Dad." I try to smile. "But I don't need the pep talk."

Dad stares at me almost uncomprehendingly, tilting his head and quirking an eyebrow. I shrug apologetically and then turn to Mom. _Help. _"Should I go wake up Mouse?"

"Nah, let her sleep in while she can," says Mom. "Why don't you go get dressed, though?"

I nod thoughtfully and head up the rickety stairs. Since my dad's the science teacher for the high school here, we can afford to have a nicer house than most—including stairs. Not as nice as the "rich kids", the ones whose parents are Capitol-employed, but nice enough for me.

Walking to my room, I pass Mouse's room. Her door is open and I peer in at her sleeping form, curled up under the blankets. She looks so sweet. 8 years old. At least _she_ doesn't have to worry about anything today.

I head into my room and put on my reaping outfits, which I had laid out on my bed last night; a thick red sweater—it's cold this time of year in Eight—with a long beige skirt and matching red socks. I brush out my hair and wash my face, and then glance at the clock. We still have half an hour before we have to leave, but I should probably wake up Mouse, anyway.

I tiptoe into her tiny bedroom and crouch by her bedside. "Hey, Mouse. You ready to wake up?"

She yawns, rubs her eyes, and nods sleepily. I help her get dressed in an outfit that matches mine and brush out her hair. She's like a little miniature version of me: blond hair, green eyes, little yellow freckles across the nose. I lead her down the stairs where Mom has made us breakfast—fried eggs. They're a delicacy around these parts, having to be imported all the way from Ten, reserved only for birthdays and reaping days. Sort of like a little good-luck present to help you get through the day. I smile at the thought. If nothing else, our parents care about us.

We go out, walking to the city square. Dad talks to students of his—mostly stuff like, "You still owe me that paper, Bernadette!"-as we wait in line to sign me in. I find my best friend Juniper in the line and we talk quietly for a few minutes before heading to our section.

Right before the mayor comes on, Juniper asks me, "Are you scared, Parker?"

"Are you?" I ask, blinking. She thinks for a moment, then nods her head. "Well, look on the bright side. My dad was saying something about how this year it's statistically the most unlikely that we'll be chosen. Something about volume, and probability, and-"

I stop talking, because the mayor has started his speech. It's the history of Panem, tailored to District Eight. He then reads the list of victors. We were a rebel district for a while, and we were never Careers, so it's relatively few. The most recent one, Penny, won about five years ago. I see her around town sometimes—she's nicer than most of the other victors that I see on television.

After the mayor's speech, our escort, Gregor Dellacroy, strides across the stage and beams at us. "Hey, District Eight! Are you ready to rock this reaping?"

To the everlasting credit of my district, we say nothing.

"Well then..." he trails off, muttering, "Sheesh, tough crowd," to the mayor beside him, who glares. "Let's make this an awesome Hunger Games this year, okay? Let's shake it up and do the guys first!"

He heads over the the reaping bowl on the right, mixes around the slips, and plucks a name from the top, just as Dad said he would. "Yon Trizzle!"

I know him from school. He's a year older than me, and one of my dad's students. One of the rich kids; his dad makes frequent trips to the Capitol. Yon storms up to the stage in a suit, paying attention to no one.

"Awesome, guys! Any volunteers?" No one. There are no volunteers in Eight.

Gregor grins and hops over to the bowl on the left, mixing around the slips and picking the first on he sees from the top. "Parker Bates!"

My mouth drops open. Juniper turns to me, looking concerned.

_Gotta stay strong. Gotta stand my ground. For Mouse. _I walk up to the stage, trying to look like I'm not scared to death. No volunteers, not here, not now.

"Well then, give it up for Yon Trizzle and Parker Bates, everybody!" The crowd stays silent. Our final dignity. See, _this_ is why Eight never wins the Hunger Games. The Capitol can't let them get away with stuff like that.

The mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, and the words echo around in my head without making any sense. Yon and I shake hands—he has this unnervingly blank stare on his face—and then Gregor leads us off the stage to the Justice Building. For the goodbyes.

Mouse, the sweet little thing, doesn't understand. "But why did you go up there, Parker? Where are you going? When are you coming back?"

I ruffle her curls a little and look sadly into her eyes. "I dunno, Mouse."

Dad clears his throat self-consciously. "Frankly, I'm shocked that you got picked. The escort must have moved his hand a good two inches to the right from his normal pattern, because there's no way he would've-" He stops, Mom putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"We love you, sweetie," she says quietly. That's all. We love you.

"Don't let Mouse watch it, okay?" I tell her. "And, hey, look on the bright side. If I win, we'll all get to live in the Victor's Village! Mouse will get a better life." I manage to crack a smile, and Mom kisses me on the cheek. I hug Mouse once more, and then they leave.

Juniper comes in, wishes me luck. I mostly say the same things to her as I did to my family.

"_Look on the bright side, June..."_

"_Look on the bright side, Mom..."_

"_Look on the bright side, Mouse..."_

There must be a bright side, right?


	17. Tell Me: Yon Trizzle, Eight

**Forgive me for this chapter, okay? You'll see what I'm talking about in a minute...**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: … I'll think of something later.**

…..

_Yon Trizzle, District Eight_

"Yon, please. You're not just a robot, Yon. You're not just an order-following machine. You have _personality! _Trust me!" says Thera for the third time this week. We're sitting outside of her house on one of those public benches, bundled up in our coats and mittens. My family is still asleep.

"Okay," I say, blinking. "Sure. I can do that."

Thera hits her forehead with her palm. "_No,_ Yon. That's not what I mean. You have to form your _own_ opinions and actions, not just do what everybody else does!"

"All right. I'll form my own opinions."

She glares at me. "Not just because I told you to?"

I sigh. "Okay. You got me there. Thera, I just can't _not _follow orders."

"Yes, you can, Yon," she says encouragingly, smiling. "You have a personality, an opinion, buried deep inside of you. You just have to find it."

"Yeah. You're right."

Thera sighs again. "Yon, I—you know what? Never mind. I have to go get ready for the reaping. You should be heading home, too."

"Okay." I stand up and start walking in the opposite direction as Thera. "I'll see you at the reaping!" I call after her, and she nods as she ducks into her house.

My own house is only down at the corner, so I don't have to walk for very long. Avoiding the icy sheets that have formed along the sidewalk, I climb up the front stairs and and push open the door.

My mother stands there, waiting. As soon as I take off my coat, she starts screaming curse words at me. My mom is angry most of the time. I just stand there until it stops.

Finally, she sighs. "I'm sorry, Yon. Your father just went out on Capitol business, and I was afraid you might have accidentally followed him out. You were with Thera, weren't you?" I nod. "Well, okay."

She looks me over. "It looks like you're already dressed for the reaping, Good for you. Sit down at the table and eat while I get your sister, okay?"

I sit and eat the plate that's in front of me. Warm eggs and bacon, a treat. It's good food, and I dive right in.

I don't think a lot, you see. There's not a lot to think about. I know a lot of other kids my age would be thinking about the reaping, but I just... don't. I'm very dull, or so say the kids at school.

Mom comes down the stairs a minute later, Ren in tow. She's got her music chip in her ear and is lip-synching along to some Capitol pop star. According to Mom, she's not a very good singer, but Ren is convinced she's going to be the next big hit, once she gets to the Capitol. If she gets to the Capitol.

Ren eats her breakfast as I finish mine, and then we head off to the reaping. We walk to the City Square, because it's within walking distance. We technically have enough money for a car, but Dad says that he'd rather not get one. It would draw too much attention to us, he says.

As Ren and I stand in line to sign in, I run into Mr. Bates, my science teacher, and his family. He reminds me of the test we have next week and asks if I've been studying. I have, since he keeps telling us to. School is pretty easy for me; I just study what they tell me to and remember the facts. I don't enjoy it, but at least it's something.

I find Thera in the 15-year-olds section. We talk for a few minutes, but then we have to stop because the mayor has started his speech. He tells the history of Panem, introduces the victors—the same old speech that he does every year. Then the escort, Gregor Dellacroy, comes up. He's annoying, but then again, nearly all escorts are, according to Thera.

"Hey, District Eight! Are you ready to rock this reaping?" He's trying to imitate one of those Capitol rock stars, and isn't doing a very good job of it. No one, not even Ren, says anything.

"Well then... sheesh, tough crowd... Let's make this an awesome Hunger Games this year, okay? Let's shake it up and do the the guys first!"

Boys first? That's strange. I guess Gregor wants to make an impression on the Capitol escort-assigners.

"Yon Trizzle!"

That's me.

"Go on, then," Thera whispers to me, something—a tear?-glinting in her eyes. I walk up there, not looking at anything but the little glass bowl that held my name.

I'm not stupid, you know. I know what the Hunger Games are, what they do to people, how it's insanely hard to make it out alive. I know that I probably won't live to see another year, not when my life is pitted against twenty-three other kids'.

I don't care. At least, I'll try not to care.

But maybe... if somebody tells me what to do...

"Parker Bates!" Mr. Bates' 14-year-old daughter is called up to the stage, looking scared yet firm. There are no volunteers.

The mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, and we shake hands. Parker looks almost scared of me, though I can't imagine why. Is it because my dad works for the Capitol?

We walk over to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. Mom and Ren come in first, although Ren isn't really paying attention. We sit there in silence for a moment, and then Mom says, "I wish your father were here."

Now that she mentions it, I wish so too.

There's just more silence, until the Peacekeepers escort them out and Thera comes in.

"Yon!" She's actually crying, which is more than my family ever did. She rushes over to me and plants a kiss on my cheek.

What?

"Yon, please..." She trails off, crying some more. I'm still confused.

"Thera...?"

"I love you, Yon," she says through sobs. "I didn't know it until you were called... please come back... come back home... maybe you'll even... y'know, find yourself... in the Games..."

I take in a few breaths. "Thera?"

"Yes?"

"What do I do?" I ask. "To get home? Tell me what to do."

She looks up at me, her face a mix of incredulity and sadness. "I don't know."


	18. Rebellious Silence: Jace Latone, Nine

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: The name "Jace" means "healer." It's also an acronym for Java Application Control Engine, Joint Assessment of Catastrophic Events, and Joint Air Coordination Element. And, of course, it's a nickname for this lovely tribute.**

…..

_Jacy Faith Latone, District Nine_

I don't talk much. Probably because I'm told not to. Darian—that's my dad, in case you didn't know—has always told me that "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all." And then he reminds me of my mother, who got her _tongue_ cut out because of something she said, and I lose all desire to say whatever not-nice thing I was going to point out about the authority figures in my life.

I'm very bitter, with a lot of bad thoughts and emotions. But if there's one thing Darian taught me, it's how to hide it all. How to wear a mask, so that nobody knows anything. We're very secretive people, Darian and I. I guess it's a result of our circumstances.

Anyway, on the morning of the reaping I wake up, eat breakfast, and get dressed. You know how it is, all that reaping preamble stuff. Apparently other people make a big deal out of it, wearing their nicest clothes and doing their hair and makeup for hours, just in case they go to the Capitol. Honestly, I think it's ridiculous and that they're just deluding themselves into being excited so that they won't have to be petrified to death.

Me, I just cut right to the chase. I'm petrified to death.

Whatever. This is my fifth year in the reaping, so it's not like I'm not used to it or anything. In fact, I'm pretty resigned to the fact that I might go into the Games sometime soon. I'll be scared, but I'll make it work. I always have.

"Hey, Jace, you ready?"

"Coming," I mutter, slipping on a jacket as I walk into the kitchen, where Darian is quietly sitting, reading. He looks up, nods at me and stands, and we head out into the busy street. Teenagers and their families everywhere, rushing down the sidewalks to get to the reaping at a reasonable time. Darian and I join the crowd, and I'm spotted by some of the kids I babysit.

"Jace! Jace!"

"Hi," I say quietly, nodding. Then the crowds press in, and I, thankfully, disappear with them. I've lost track of Darian, but I'm pretty sure he knows I can find my own way. It takes forever to sign in, mostly because of the line—Nine's one of the bigger districts—and I don't have many friends, so it's a lonely wait, but I manage to get in and make it to the 16-year-olds section just before the mayor's speech. Other kids are not so lucky, and they keep signing in through the mayor's long speech. Thankfully, the noise of the crowd drowns him out. Good. I was getting tired of hearing about how _great_ Panem is for the forty-third time this week.

Once all the crowds are settled, out escort—a narcissist with commitment issues, as he never fails to remind us, named Bobby—walks out onto the stage. "Happy Hunger Games, District Nine," he says flatly, almost rolling his eyes. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor... I stood it," he whispers to himself sarcastically, leaning into the microphone so that everybody can hear. Even though he's Capitol and I hate their guts, I have to admire his sarcastic, almost rebellious approach to life. As well as envy the fact that he can say whatever he wants and nobody minds.

"So... yeah. Ladies first." He walks over to the first of two glass bowls and plucks a slip from the middle. "Jacy Latone."

Oh, cr—that's me.

Did I mention I was petrified today?

As quickly as I can I hide the fear from my face and walk up there with the most bitterly blasé look on my face that I have ever pulled in my life. Of course, it's all just an act. But they don't have to know that.

"Any volunteers?" As if.

"Well, then. Jacy Latone, District Nine tribute." Bobby heads over to the second glass bowl on the other side of the stage and pulls a name. "Noaa Carpenter!"

I know Noaa, though not well. He's in my class at school. Generally a nice, easygoing guy with a fondness for poetry. And some mild anger issues, but those are easy to forget. Tall, lightly tanned skin, brown hair, brown eyes.

Noaa doesn't seem to be taking this whole reaping thing well. He walks up from the back of the crowd, fists clenched, face red and trying desperately to calm down. Needless to say, he fails, and he looks like he's about to burst out screaming when nobody volunteers for him.

"Jacy Latone and Noaa Carpenter, District Nine tributes." Bobby's mood has changed from sarcastic to just plain uninterested, which works well enough for me, I guess. I wonder how he got into the escorting job in the first place.

The mayor reads off the Treaty of Treason, which I have the misfortune of actually having to listen to this time. It's just a bunch of more rules for us. Oh, how I would love to break each one of them and watch their reactions. But I don't. I don't say anything.

Goodbye hour comes next, and my only visitor is my dad. Essentially Darian just says, "You're strong. You can make it. If you don't say anything incriminating," and I nod without smiling. Oh, and at the end of the time slot he says, "Love you, Jace," and hugs me. That, in itself, is a small miracle.

We're not very big communicators, in case you didn't catch on.

Bobby leads Noaa and me out onto the train. I continue my "cool and collected" mask for the cameras, and hey, maybe by the end of the week I'll have molded to the mask. That would be handy. Noaa looks considerably less angry and seems to be whispering poetry to himself. I wonder what the spectators'll think of _that_.

Once the doors close and we roll out of the station, Bobby informs us, "Today's my 35th birthday. And whatever your question is, the answer is _yes, we _are_ serious_."

"Nice to know," I mutter back.


	19. Being Alive: Noaa Carpenter, Nine

**Another short one. Don't sue me; I gave you two at a time.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: I'm fond of shout-outs and Sondheim. So, if you've happened to notice any very blatant musical references squeezed in wherever they fit, good for you. You get a brownie point. Hint: the "poem" is Mr. Sondheim's. Not mine. And—just take a good, long look at the escort, okay?**

…..

_Noaa Carpenter, District Nine_

Leave it to me to be stuck in the back of the sign-in line when the reaping starts.

Seriously, just _how_ many new twelve-year-olds need to go through the special first sign-in form? And how many need to be _escorted_ to the twelve-year-olds section? It must have been some kind of bubble year. And half of them must be really, really dumb.

Okay, I know that's not a fair way to think. I'm just impatient. Okay, calm down, Noaa. Rationalize. Take deep breaths. You can do this. It's not that long a wait.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Nine." It's already started? Yeah, Bobby's making his way to the front of the stage, looking as unemotional as ever. _Will you _hurry up_?_ I want to scream, but I don't.

"And may the odds be _ever _in your favor..." There are only a few people ahead of me now. Good. Now watch me not get reaped and all this waiting be for nothing. "... I stood it." Oh, Bobby. He grows on you, especially when _you've_ had to stand _him_ for several years.

I've mostly gained control myself by now, as I watch the number of people in front of me diminish at a steady pace. Soon, I'm right in front of the desk, and I sigh. "Noaa Carpenter, 16." The lady at the desk signs me in, and I begin to squeeze through the crowd towards my section—a thoroughly unpleasant thing to do, what with all the twelve-year-olds...

"So... yeah. Ladies first." I duck under one of the ropes into the next section, which is much easier to get through. "Jacy Latone."

I look up. Jace is in my class at school, though she's very quiet and we don't hang out with the same crowds, anyways. I heard some rumor about her mom being taken away by the Capitol to be an Avox or something... Jace, looking unnaturally bored, strides over to the stage. I wonder if she's doing that to mock Bobby. "Any volunteers?" I can visibly see Jace snort and push back her silvery-blond hair, subconsciously biting her lip. Interesting.

No volunteers. I've made it to my section, though, which is a relief. "Well, then. Jacy Latone, District Nine tribute." I sigh as Bobby makes his way over to the other side of the stage. Even though I barely knew her, I feel sorry for Jace. I can't imagine what it would be like to go into the Hunger Games, knowing that you have slim odds of surviving. With what little I know about Jace, she's probably using her snarky eye-rolls as a coping mechanism. I don't know if-

"Noaa Carpenter!"

I blink, stunned. Then exactly one word crosses my mind. It's not a very nice word, either, and I probably shouldn't repeat it here.

A tirade of more angry, not-very-nice words stream through my brain as I walk up to the stage. By the time I get there, I'm clenching my fists, my face is red, and I've thoroughly exhausted all of the curse words that I know, culminating in a _Capitol, you suck._

"Any volunteers?"

_No one? District Nine, you suck, too._

"Jacy Latone and Noaa Carpenter, District Nine tributes," says Bobby, whose very presence is infuriating, and Jace and I shake hands. Both she and Bobby look passive, which only makes me angrier. Can't they even bring themselves to _care?_

Final goodbyes come next. My parents let me storm around the room for a minute before I take in some deep breaths and calm myself down. Then come the tears and the "I love you"s and the "Come back"s and all. It's all the same words, but the messages are no less meaningful. _I love you, I love you, I love you, and you, and you, and I'll try to come home, I promise. I'll do everything I can._

After the hour is up, Bobby escorts Jace and me to the train. I sigh and stick my hand in my pocket, fingers brushing against a small piece of paper I keep in there. It's a snippet of an old poem, one that I found in the dumpster, half-burnt. I doubt it's legal, because all of the official Panemmian poems are either about the glory of Capitol, the Hunger Games, or how good life is. I whisper the words under my breath, words that I've memorized.

_Somebody crowd me with love_

_Somebody force me to care_

_Somebody make me come through_

_I'll always be there_

_As frightened as you_

_To help us survive_

_Being alive, being alive, being alive._

A nice poem to think about when you're being shipped off to your death. "Being alive, being alive, being alive." But hey, anything goes.


	20. Home on Range: Chantelle Jacobsen, Ten

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Chantelle's creator almost made her last name "Anderson," which would've been incredibly ironic, seeing as her district partner's first name is "Anderson" and we already have a "Link Anderson" from Three...**

…..

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

"God, I can't wait until the Games start."

Simultaneously, my whole family turns to Gramps and glares. Annalise and Landon share a significant glance; Dad crosses his arms and takes a few steps away from him; Mom looks like she can't decide if she's horrified or angry; Gram just looks exasperated.

"How many times do we have to remind you, Allen?" Gram begins to lecture, taking the cookies out of the oven. "You're not a Peacekeeper anymore. You're a citizen of District Ten. So at least show some respect for our family and act like it."

Gramps slouches back in his chair and closes an eye. "I keep tellin' you, Chantelle, you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

Gram rolls her eyes but says nothing. Mom, however, continues the tirade. "And especially when Chantelle here"-she motions to where I, Young Chantelle, am sitting- "is still in the reaping! For shame, Dad!"

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, and clicks the battered TV remote button, changing the channel.

"And all you ever watch is that TV!" Mom scolds. "Capitol announcement after Capitol announcement after Capitol propaganda!"

"Sweetie, you're forgetting that I _was_ once, in fact, from the Capitol."

"No need to go flaunting it in our faces!"

Annalise and Landon decide that they have heard enough and, thanks to their oh-so-special twin bond, get up in unison and head over to their rooms. After a few more lines of argument, I walk out the back door and into the farm yard, breathing in the fresh air. A few feet away from me, Max whimpers, obviously upset at being tied to a post. I tenderly undo the knot, stroking his soft gray fur. My dog, it seems, is my only friend on this isolated ranch. Probably my only one in the world.

"Did you _see_ that?" calls Gramps from the house, presumably in reaction to one of the Reapings. "DID YOU _SEE_ THAT LITTLE GIRL? _This_ is why we should have volunteers, so that nobody that scared should have to go into the Games! _No one!_"

While Gramps continues his yelling, Gram comes out into the yard. "Chantelle, honey, it's time for us to go."

I look up, grabbing Max's collar. "What's Gramps yelling about?"

Gram purses her lips. "No one volunteered for the 14-year-old girl who was called from One." Oh, that's odd. "She was the daughter of a victor, but clearly scared."

I nod, not really in the mood for caring, as I tie Max back up. It's already a known fact that people can be cold-hearted monsters, no use groaning about it.

We live on the outskirts of the district, so it takes us a while to get to the man town. Since Ten is pretty sprawled-out, every household has a cart and some animal that can pull it, so that they don't have to walk so far. Our animal is a horse named Messa. I don't care much for horses, but Annalise and Landon absolutely adore it. They deal with getting Messa hooked up to the cart while I help Gram and Gramps into the front seats of the cart. Gramps is still lamenting about that "little girl" from One, and I'm tempted to point out that she's only one year younger than I am.

We make it into town in time, and I sign in. "Good luck," says Mom as the rest of my family heads off into the edge of the crowd. I continue over to the 15-year-olds section, standing awkwardly in the middle of the crowd. I don't know any of these kids, and they don't know me. Dad never liked the idea of us going into town every day just for a school full of Capitol propaganda, so we were homeschooled. And this is the result.

Our escort, Delia Dee, comes up onto the stage, wearing a large cowgirl hat and ridiculous boots. Every year, she does this to try to connect to the people of District Ten. We don't like it. "Hey, y'all! Are all you farmers and hostlers ready to ride?" She doesn't wait for a response, knowing that we won't give one to her. "Well, then, let's get started with the reaping! Gals're up first!"

I shake my head and sigh lightly. Delia walks over to the bowl on the left and picks out a slip. "Well, folks, it seems our lucky girl today is _Chantelle Jacobsen!_ Come on up, Chantelle!"

W-w-wait. No. It—it can't—no! It's not—is it? That's—that's—I've been—I'm going into the Games! N-n-no!

Walk, Chantelle.

I force myself to move to the stage, heading up the stairs and shaking hands with the escort. My mind is still running around in circles when the boy's name is called. "Anderson Birk!" There is no movement from the crowd. "Is there an Anderson Birk here, 16 years old?"

Eventually, a weak male voice calls out, "Yes," and the 16-year-old crowd parts to make way for the boy, who has started to walk up to the stage. At first I don't notice anything different about him—except that he walks really slowly—and then I see the stick tapping out the way in front of his feet, and that his eyes are closed. "Can somebody help me up the stairs?" he asks meekly, and one of the kids in the front takes his arm as they ascend.

I've never seen or heard of this Anderson boy before, but it's pretty obvious that he's blind.

"Well, well, this is quite a twist, isn't it?" says Delia nervously, as if trying to hide her own anger. "Any volunteers for these two?"

A wind blows across the area, but no one in the crowd speaks up. I'm suddenly reminded of Gramps's comment from earlier: _"_This_ is why we should have volunteers, so that nobody that scared should have to go into the Games! _No one!_"_

But—wait. That wasn't just my memory of his voice. That was _his_ _voice_.

As soon as I come to that realization, a gunshot sounds and chaos breaks out. Delia grabs Anderson's arm and we are swept away to the Justice Building by a squad of Peacekeepers, with more gunshots sounding in the distance. I am dumped into a guarded room and told to wait for my visitors.

It's a while before I realize that no one's coming. That they're already dead, or imprisoned, or in mourning. They're going to pay for what Gramps said. And so will I, in the arena.

Unless I push the hardest I can to come home, I'll never get to say goodbye.


	21. Color and Light: Anderson Birk, Ten

**Long, short. Long, short. Hmm... wonder if I'm getting into a rhythm here...**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Just before Anderson was submitted, I myself was thinking about creating a blind character to put in another person's SYOT. And then Anderson's profile showed up in my inbox.**

…..

_Anderson Birk, District Ten_

Apparently, there was some kind of commotion in the crowd after no one volunteered for us. An old man speaking out, a gunshot followed by several more, screaming. Next thing I knew, the escort had grabbed my arm and was yanking me off of the stage. I was led into a room and told to sit down on the couch, that my visitors would be coming soon.

It's been a good 45 minutes. I've been counting. I can't hear any footsteps coming down the hall, and time is running out. They're very strict about the only-one-hour rule, as I know from when my sister left for the Games. We just nearly made it.

Needless to say, my sister didn't come back. And, most likely, neither will I.

Which means that I won't get to see my father or mother again. But I can imagine what they'd say. My mom would sob, just like she did the last time, and say, "I love you, I love you," over and over again until the end of the hour. My father would shift uncomfortably, and then, in a low voice, apologize for being harsh on me, for not supporting me or accepting my disability. I would tell him that it's okay, that I know he loves me anyway, and that I'm glad that I got to live at least 16 years of my life in peace and happiness. Just like Tara did.

But, in stead of sobs and apologies, there is silence. They're most likely caught in the riot, unable to get to me, pleading with unreasonable Peacekeepers. My hand moves to my right wrist, and I rub the beaded bracelet that my sister gave to me so many years ago. She tried to explain the different colors on it to me, and I think I can get a vague grasp on what they are.

_Red is heat and fire, warm and passionate, but also bloody. Orange is a softer, kinder red. Yellow is brightness, and the sun, and happy, cheerful days. Green is the forest air, grass and leaves and the earth. Blue is the sky and the ocean, forever expanding, cool and calm. Purple is the royal color, of kings and high heroes, the color of plums and violet flowers, contemplative and intuitive._

I've memorized her exact phrases. She had a way with words, which she used to her advantage in the Games. We really thought she was coming home when the boy from Four caught her in a trap. I'm glad I didn't see the details, but I could hear her screams and whimpers and pleading, which, to me, is even worse.

I can hear footsteps outside of my door, and for a moment I think it's my family, when the door swings open and a rough Peacekeeper's voice barks, "Anderson Birk, your goodbye hour is over." He marches in and grabs my arm. "We're heading to the trains now."

"I know," I say quietly. He doesn't respond.

The noises around me suddenly go from silent to deafeningly loud, and I can sense the flashing of cameras going off and on. "Here, take his arm," says the Peacekeeper, and another person's hand grabs onto me. It's a softer, smaller hand, one that reminds me of Tara's.

"Hi, I'm Chantelle," she says. "Your district partner." Her voice is like a brook, cool and quiet yet promising danger if you fall in and drown. Blue, with a deadly side of red and green.

"Step up," she tells me. "Higher." I find my footing and mount the stairs cautiously. Stairs are my weak point, especially stairs going up to a moving vehicle.

Eventually I hear the doors slide shut, and the escort, Delia, begins to chirp, something about how Chantelle and I work wonderfully together, asking if we're going to be allies. Chantelle promptly lets go of my arm and I hear her footsteps stomp away. Angry, very much so.

I am, too. This isn't right, this isn't fair. Because I have no chance of surviving the Games. All I have is color and light, not the world. To win the Hunger Games, you need to be able to see the world.

I desperately need an ally.


	22. Wildfire: Caprice Alexander, Eleven

**Gotta finish reapings, gotta finish reapings... another shorter one, but I'm pressed for time.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: A "caprice" is a type of musical piece... specifically, one that has no set form.**

…..

_Caprice Alexander, District Eleven_

"Caprice Alexander!"

With my pale skin, amber eyes, and fiery-red hair, I stand out in this District Eleven crowd. So it's easy for the cameras to lock on me as soon as my name is called. _Caprice Alexander._ I can see my face projected against the large screen that is the backdrop of the stage.

And for a moment, I'm scared. Truly, utterly consumed by terror; so frightened that I can't think of anything else. I can feel it in every fiber of my being, that fear, that panic that won't go away...

Immediately, I shove it down, back into the depths of my mind. _Okay, Caprice, think. Form a strategy. There's no time to be scared now. Go. _Go! But somewhere, deep down, I know that it's useless, and the panic still clings to my skin as I make my way, step after step, up to the stage.

"You are Caprice?" the escort confirms solemnly, and I nod, not saying anything lest my voice crack and betray the painful emotions bubbling up to the surface. He turns to the crowd and asks for volunteers. Nobody comes up. Nobody _ever_, in the history of District Eleven, has come up to volunteer, and this year is no different.

"I believe we have our female tribute, then. Caprice Alexander."

The wave of emotion is starting to subside now, clearing out of my brain to come back another day. I look around at the pressing crowds and at the cameras trained on them, thinking hard, as the escort picks the boys' name. I don't know him—there's not a great chance I would, seeing how _big_ our district is—but he looks strong enough, if mediocre in other regards. Cameron Ray, who is going into these Games with me. There are no volunteers for him, either.

In the Justice Building, my parents come and go, bringing their goodbyes with them. I don't have many friends, so they're allowed to stay with me until the end of the hour. I try to remain stoic for them, but they don't understand. They keep asking me how I feel; I keep telling them that it's not important, that I will overcome these Games, no matter what happens.

"Caprice..." breathes my mother, unable to say more than just my name over and over.

"I promise," I repeat. "I _will_ overcome the Hunger Games. I'll hang in there as long as I can."

"But Caprice..." She lets out a sob. "...can you win?..."

This gives me pause, and I tilt my head. Shouldn't she know by now? I'm not _about_ winning, or surviving, or anything. I'm about conquering myself. I thought she knew...

"Mother, I'll try," I say quietly. "But know that as long as I stay ahold of myself, I've won."

Father, who has been standing beside me, strangely quiet, says, "Caprice. Don't you go on with all that _'I'll only come home if I can do it unchanged' _thing. The Hunger Games change everyone."

I shake my head and smile lightly. "I'm not resisting change. But I'm not going to lower myself to the level of animals just so I can _win_."

Father sighs and shares a significant glance with Mother. "Morals," he mutters under his breath. "High and mighty morals. That's what get people killed, Caprice."

I lower my head, and say nothing. For a moment, I can feel the sadness coming back in a frenzied craze, but I push it down. I won't let it happen. I won't let my crazes take over me. They never understood that, did they?

"We love you, baby..." says Mother in a hushed whisper. "Always remember that we love you... and we'd do anything to have you back."

I hug them tightly until the Peacekeepers tell us that it's time to go. They leave, and the escort comes to bring me and Cameron Ray to the train station. I try to look quietly thoughtful for the cameras—nothing that will stand out too much, but something to let them know that I'm strong, in a slippery, quick sort of way. Perhaps they'll notice and want to sponsor me, though that obviously isn't my goal.

My mother always said that I was a strange girl headed for a strange destiny. She was right—or, at least, I'm going to prove her right. I'll master myself in these Games. I'll hold onto my identity, whatever the cost may be. I am Caprice Alexander, the strange girl with a low fire in her, and I will stay in control.

Remember me for that.


	23. The Nice Guy: Cameron Ray, Eleven

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: This is the fifth (and last) tribute whose name begins with a "C". The others are Carreen, Che, Chantelle, and Caprice, making it the most common first letter for tribute first-names in this story.**

…..

_Cameron Ray, District Eleven_

I never knew my father. My mother would never talk about him, and I've only heard his name once. In fact, she must have convinced the whole sector not to mention him. I don't know where he is, or why he's not here with my mother, and, frankly, I'm not quite sure I want to.

It's better this way, I guess. For me and Delilah not to have his absence be a major force in our lives. We're getting along just fine, what with our little farm and whatnot. We're happy enough here, and we make enough to get by, though we're certainly not rich or even middle-class.

I'm glad Delilah doesn't have to be here, crushed by this crowd. District Eleven is huge, and so instead of being divided into ages, we're divided into sectors, with about a third of the kids from each sector being chosen to go. I'm one of those unlucky ones, though I suppose it was coming to me. For the last two straight years I've had it off. Delilah and Momma are back somewhere less crowded, in the streets or in a hotel or something. It's good that the whole population doesn't have to be here, otherwise nothing would be able to get done and...

The grand mayor of Eleven—the representative of all the sector mayors—finishes up his speech and introduces our escort, Brubeck Dee. He's a new guy, just bumped up from Twelve, and you can see why he got a lower district—he takes no pleasure in the job, treating it very solemnly as if it were a sacred ritual rather than a celebration (as the Capitol sees it) or a lottery of doom (as we see it). Brubeck mounts the stage, greets the district—speaking as if it were the whole district, rather than a select few—and picks out the girl's name. "Caprice Alexander!"

The cameras sweep across the crowd and lock on a girl from Sector Four, and I'm startled by how, well, _different_ she looks. Pale, when most of us are dark-skinned. Thin, but well-fed, from the looks of it. Her hair is a flyaway tangle of red, orange, and copper. She looks panicked for a moment, and then pulls herself together into a firm, unemotional expression. Her eyes dart around, taking in everything. Smart. Very smart. Probably a contender, at least more so than some of the other tributes from Eleven in the past years.

Brubeck calls for volunteers, but the crowd stays silent. He goes over to the boys' bowl and sticks in his hand. I suck in a breath and cross my fingers, hoping that it's not me. Anybody but me. Momma and Delilah need me here, to work on the farm, for the tesserae and all...

"Cameron Ray!"

_No! _I immediately think, heart sinking. _It can't be... Delilah... Momma... they need me on the farm._

It takes a while to get up to the stage, and I hope for the sponsors' sake that I look strong enough to be a contender as well. Caprice and I shake hands—her grip is firm, but not crushing—and Brubeck leads us to the Justice Building for our goodbyes.

It takes about ten minutes before Momma and Delilah rush into the room. Momma seems like she can't do anything but sob and sob, whenever she tries to say something it's always cut off by more sobs. Delilah is oddly strong, if trembling a bit. "Cameron, you'll try to come home, right?"

I nod, though in my mind I can't help but think, _I can't do it._

The eleven-year-old grips my hand. "You're strong. You can tie ropes better than anyone I've seen. You know how to skin and kill animals, at least on the farm, so you can hunt-"

I don't have the heart to protest. I pull her up onto my lap and look into her sad little eyes and try to convince myself that everything's going to be okay, even when I know it's not. I can only kill _animals_ that I've tied up and are dying anyway, though she might be right about the hunting. I can't swim, I'm claustrophobic, I'm too nice and whenever I'm not I have an uncontrollable temper. I know what the Capitol will see me as. Just another one of _those_ tributes. The bloodbaths.

Just another one of those tearful goodbyes, those unimpressive chariot outfits, those mediocre training scores, those nerve-wrecked interviews, those early, unremarkable deaths. Because we're just entertainment for them. Entertainment and maybe a little bit of vengeance.

"Goodbye, Delilah," I whisper into her ear, and then send her out to go, trying to stay strong.


	24. Confident, Broken: Riley Rynne, Twelve

**I'm back!**

**Sorry about not finishing the reapings by the time a said I would, guys. Updating will be much slower from now on, but I'll try to get the last of the reapings and the opening ceremonies chapters up before I fly off to another vacation.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: This tribute was originally submitted for District 11, 10, or 8. Unfortunately, those were some of the first female spots to be filled, so Riley had to relocate to Twelve.**

…..

_Riley Rynne, District Twelve_

I wake up staring at the cracks in the training center ceiling. For a moment I'm confused, and then the pain hits. Pain, all over my body. I let out a low moan and roll onto my side, closing my eyes again.

"Hey, Riley," says a voice from behind me.

"Hey, Danielle," I breathe out, trying to sit up.

My only friend crouches down beside me and offers her hand. "Are you okay?"

I make it to my feet and stare at her. "No. I'm not okay."

She frowns, sympathy in her eyes, and stretches out her arms for a hug. I accept it gladly, and try my best not to cry. "Everything's going to work out," she promises me in a hushed voice. "Someday, we'll get back at them. Someday, we'll make sure that they never hurt you again." She draws back and grabs a sword from the old rack. "We'll run them through with our swords, and show them no mercy. Right?"

"Right," I mutter halfheartedly, walking over to grab my own sword.

Danielle's family runs the Training Center, back from the old, short days when Twelve was a Career district. It fell out of use as the Capitol decided we weren't worthy enough, and now only a few, brave, _rich_ families can afford to send their children there—not to volunteer for the Games, oh no, but just to be more prepared than the others. Y'know, just in case.

My family doesn't know I train. It's a favor from Danielle. My parents certainly have enough money to do so, but they hate me too much to give me a chance to survive in the Games. In fact, they'd probably be calling for my blood.

But it's a safe place, as far as places go, and if I ever need anything, Danielle is sure to supply it. She's amazing. I don't know what I would do if anything happened to her. Go back to being abused, I guess.

Today is the day of the Reaping, and while I certainly don't enjoy the day, I can't help but feel relieved. A rest day for me, of sorts. No need to go back to the house. Just straight to the City Square, to sign in for the Reaping. The ceremony takes hours, which is hours less that my parents get to slash me with knives and lash me with a whip.

I don't know why they do it. Danielle says that they're just sadists, and would do it to anybody. But I point out that my older sister and my twin brother don't get treated the same way. Maybe it's a youngest child thing, or some kind of traumatic incident.

Whatever. I don't care. I get hurt, sure, but I can always run away. And, once I get strong enough, I can face them.

If I'm not shattered to pieces first.

Not that anyone can tell. I put on this act. Confident, confident, confident. For the most part, it works. No one ever sees my brokenness, except Danielle.

I put on my confident act as I walk to the Reaping with Danielle, signing in, ignoring the malicious glares of my family which always disappear when someone else is around. The boys in the 16-year-olds' section can't stop staring at me. _Confident, confident, confident._

The mayor of Twelve, a supposed descendant of Gale Hawthorne who never fails to remind us of that every year, mounts the stage and begins to read his speech. I pay no attention, nor does anybody else.

The escort bobbles over, a prim and proper lady with a strange accent named Jude Vesper, and draws her lips into a thin line. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor." Her voice is deep and commanding, with an air of superiority about it. "Ladies first."

She sticks her perfectly-manicured hand into the bowl on the right and draws out a name. "Riley Rynne."

I flinch as Danielle places a gentle hand on my shoulder, and then look into her eyes. _Go on, then._ I nod, and stride up to the stage, trying to look strong. _Confident, confident, confident._

Jude Vesper looks me over critically for a moment, then nods her approval and turns to the boys' bowl. "Kirby Knightly."

It's a merchant boy, with blond hair and murky blue eyes. He's tall, and lumbers over to the stage with this shocked look on his face. 17 years old. Doesn't look like much of a threat, although I know you don't have to be a physical wonder to slice someone up...

_Confident, confident, confident._

But deep down, I know I'm scared. I'm petrified. But I can't look it. Not in front of _them_. It would only give them pleasure. This is my final dignity.

I had hoped that my family wouldn't bother to visit me, but I hoped in vain. They came, with all their cruelty and hate. They didn't touch me. We didn't say much. They just glared, and occasionally smirked, and I can't help thinking how _evil_ they are. I catch glimpses of regret in the eyes of my siblings, which provides a small relief.

Danielle comes after them, and she is much more sympathetic. She gives me the hugs and tears and encouragements that I always wished to get from my cold relations, and it is only after she leaves that I realize that she is the only reason I can stay strong. Without her, I crumble to pieces.


	25. Following Her: Kirby Knightly, Twelve

**Drumroll, please... this is the last of the reapings! Hooray! I congratulate you all for sticking with me thus far. Let's make this one count!**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: This tribute was submitted by Yelof530, who also submitted Thalia, from District Three. Yelof530 dedicated the first chapter of her story _Think Twice, And Maybe You'll Live_ to me, since it involves similar ideas regarding certain Gamemaker-President interactions... and I just discovered that when I was trying to find fun facts for this chapter.**

…..

_Kirby Knightly, District Twelve_

This is the stage where she died.

Or, more accurately, was sent to her death. But who cares about accuracy at this point? When everything is gone? I can't look at this stage without thinking of her, and thinking of her brings back the pain from two years ago. The pain and the memories. That's all I have.

I wish Reaping Day were just over and done with. I'm glad it only happens once a year, otherwise I'd go insane. Mad, like so many before me have. Panem doesn't have a very high sanity quotient, what with the Games looming over all of our heads.

But no, the Reaping Day "festivities" have to be dragged out of control, making it almost impossible for me to go on like normal. First, the dressing up. Then, all the speeches. Then, the actual drawing, and the Treaty of Treason, and the sending-off at the train station, and then the district "celebration" afterward. Not to mention all of the pomp and splendor in the Capitol. It makes my stomach turn.

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fist as the mayor of District Twelve walks up to the podium to give his speech. The History of Panem, with special regards to District Twelve. I've heard it again and again, but I can't help sinking into the words.

"_In a time far before our own, there was a country by the name of the United States of America, on a continent known as North America..."_

Twelve has always been a complicated district to work with. Smallest. Usually the poorest, although that sometimes changes. The district where the figureheads and leaders of the Second Rebellion came from. But also the district where the Capitol's savior, Commander Gale Hawthorne, was raised. Careers for a while, and then back into poverty. Nobody's quite sure what to make of us, and it shows in the speech.

_If Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark had succeeded, there wouldn't _be _any more Games._

I open my eyes and then immediately drop my gaze as Jude Vesper walks across the stage, heels clicking. She pauses, pulling her mouth into a thin sort of frown, and then draws out the girl's name. "Riley Rynne."

Dexter Whatts, a kid I sometimes hang out with but not really, suddenly grabs my hand. "It's gonna be okay." No doubt he's remembering my silent breakdown last year, when I couldn't help but think of Fawn. I look up at him and nod, bringing myself together.

The girl who was called, Riley, is merchant like me, though I can see some Seam genes in her golden-brown hair color. She's a year younger than me, but I've seen her around school. Pretty enough to be popular, but usually just sticking to her friend, Danielle. Daughter of a wealthy family. I squint. She looks confident. Did she train or something?

Then the pain hits me like a rock and I can't look anymore.

The boy's drawing is usually much less of an ordeal, giving me time to pull myself back up to brace myself for another horrible wave of memories. Jude, with her antiquated accent and refined bearing, reaches into the second bowl and calls out the name.

She reveals an awful truth: where Fawn goes, I am destined to follow.

Somehow, this gives me some strange sort of comfort, and I'm able to make it to the stage without tears or meltdowns. Riley and I shake hands, and we're headed to the Justice Building for our goodbyes.

I'm doing fine until I'm left alone in the room, and then it overcomes me. This room is so much like the one where I saw her for the last time. Her presence is overwhelming, and I sink to my knees.

My dad comes in and comforts me, tells me that it's going to be okay, that I'm not alone, that Fawn and my mom would have wanted me to be strong. I nod, knowing that he's right. Then Dexter comes; he doesn't say much, but it's nice to know that he is there. Finally, Fawn's family, which has become as close to me as my own.

Her brother hands me something. "For your token. She would have wanted you to have it."

Of course she would have. I open my hand: a black band with a wedding ring and a bead on it. I bring it closer to my face, hands beginning to shake. The ring was Fawn's token, and the bead was from the twelve-year-old that she died protecting.

I close my eyes lightly. Breathe in, breathe out. "Thank you, Tyk."

Then they all leave, and I'm brought out into the sea of cameras and crowds, clutching onto my token, which is as dear to me as life itself. I stare into the empty faces, and keep in my mind the memory of my strong, beautiful, compassionate fiancee, and try to be ready.

Ready for this.

Ready for the Hunger Games to begin.


	26. Preparations and Revelations

**This story will be on yet another hiatus for two weeks, starting Thursday. This will most likely be the last update before then.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Jacy Latone's reaping chapter is titled "Rebellious Silence". This also happens to be the title of a chapter of the SYOT _An Unsung Song: The Tale of the 405th Hunger Games_, by RueofDistrict11, narrated by a character that I created, who is mute.**

…..

_Emily Raine, District One_

"Ohemgee!" squeals one of the prep team members as she leads me into the room. "We were, like, _so_ excited to work with someone as—let's face it—_good-looking _as you! And _rich!_ And _trained!_ 'Gee, I pity the poor souls that have to work with that boy from Two—or, God forbid, that boy from Six! Or anyone from the lesser districts! Honestly!"

While she continues chattering, another woman slides up to me and coos, "You're perfect, honey."

I swallow and crease my brow. "Um, thanks."

The woman—Amica, I think her name is—nods in reply and leads me over to the styling chair. The first woman continues, running her fingers through my hair, "I don't even think we have much to do for you. You're perfectly styled already. Should we just call in Tarquin?"

Cly, the man standing by the makeup counter, shakes his head. "And miss the chance to work with this amazing tribute? I think not." He gives me a wink, which makes me shrink back a little. _Butterfly mode, Emily. Butterfly mode._ I picture myself back in District One, being flirty and outgoing, and soon I feel fine, chatting with these people. Well, almost fine. But there's no time to dwell on that now.

The first woman, Dot, brushes out my hair and curls it into an elegant golden spiral. Cly paints my fingernails and toenails while Amica makes sure that I have no leg hair left, and applies coats of makeup to my face. We talk about District One and the Capitol and fashion and, occasionally, the Games.

The Games.

Fear sinks back into me as I think about the days ahead. But then I take in a few breaths and remind myself that Spark is here to look out for me and that I'm prepared and that I've got an edge because of my looks and that I should be happy, because so many girl from One dream of being in my position and... and...

After a short time, the prep team deems me "gorgeous" and allows my stylist, Tarquin, to come in. He beams as soon as he sees me, and holds up a fitted gold-and-diamond dress on a hanger.

"You're gonna be stellar out there, darling. More than I could ever have hoped for."

I glance at my reflection in the mirror and sigh.

…..

_Riley Rynne, District Twelve_

"Oh... my... what the... but..." This is the reaction of my prep team upon seeing me.

I'm confused for a moment, but then it hits me. The scars. They must look horribly grotesque, especially the new ones. These Capitol people—they couldn't have had any way of knowing...

"Well," one finally says, stepping forward, "your costume will probably cover most of them. I don't think it'll be much of a problem." The other two nod emphatically and move toward me, bringing me over to the styling chair and getting to work. They do my hair, put makeup on my face, paint my nails—but they don't touch my body. They still seem horrified, just trying to wrap their heads around it.

I look into one of their eyes and smile apologetically. They're just like children, in a way. Naïve. They don't know pain or hurt, just like they can't realize how inhumane the Hunger Games are. Clueless, in an almost sympathetic way.

Well, I can't afford to have sympathy for them. I'm about to fight for my life, and they're helping it along. Without even knowing. Which makes it hurt all the worse.

Fortunately, I'm used to pain.

_Confident, confident, confident._

…..

_Carreen Haggerty, District Four_

Clute, my stylist, makes some final adjustments to my costume and my makeup, and then brings me down to the area where the chariots are waiting. A few other tributes have gathered there, including the ones from One and Two. I give Gabriel a quick nod and we walk over to join our future alliance, standing next to the District Two chariot.

"Hey," says Emily from One, turning to face us. Even though she's related to a bunch of victors, she just strikes me as unprepared. However, I probably shouldn't underestimate her, even though she is all of fourteen years old.

"Hey," Gabriel says in return, smiling slightly as if thinking of something amusing. I'm not quite sure what to make of this. Although we gained each other's respect on the train ride and agreed to an extra alliance, he seems almost... not _mocking_ the Careers, something slightly less arrogant than that. As if he doesn't plan to get involved with the rest of them.

Marius, from Two, looks us over while his district partner grins. "This is going to be so exciting, guys!" Emerald Honeycomb also seems unprepared, although in a less... honest way than Emily. It might just be her age, but she's radiating overconfidence and eagerness. Maybe she's just vicious—Marius seems slightly wary of her.

"D'you think there's anyone else we should consider for the Careers?" asks Marius gruffly. Everything about him seems gruff. "Any of the others, I mean. The strong ones."

I shake my head. "Let's wait until training to decide that. I've seen many strong-looking others whose lack of training made them fall quickly. In previous Games."

Marius nods, and the boy next to him—Luka, from One—smirks. "It's not like we couldn't strike them down at the Cornucopia before they become liabilities to our alliance," he points out. He's smaller than Marius, Gabriel and even some of the other tributes, but he looks trained, with quick reflexes and wiry muscles. Luka seems incredibly sneaky and vicious, if not downright sadistic. One of the crazy tributes, then. Better look out for him.

"It's still too early to make those decisions," I repeat in an unusually cold voice, trying to analyze what possible weaknesses this boy could have.

We talk a little bit more, and then an announcement blares from the speakers: "Tributes should be getting on their chariots; the procession will start in _five minutes_. _Five minutes_ until the procession starts." The announcer has less of a Capitol accent than most.

"Well, we'd best be off," Luka says with a grin, nodding his head towards his chariot at the front of the line, and he and Emily break off. Gabriel and I walk back to our own chariot, which is decorated with little moving waves to match our costumes.

"Impressions?" I say to him once the others are out of earshot.

Gabriel chuckles under his breath. "No wonder the Capitol likes Careers. They're so interesting to watch, especially when they have to work together." He looks up at me. "You ready for the crowds?"

…..

_Yon Trizzle, District Eight _

Our chariot rolls out into the city. I wonder if my dad is actually in the crowd, watching. I wonder if I'll actually see him.

Our costumes are decent but not amazing. Parker is wearing a velvet dress that must be awfully hot to wear in the summer; I am wearing a nice suit made of some other kind of fabric. Stylists aren't very creative when it comes to District Eight—not that I would know the first thing about creativity.

I look around at the other tributes. District Ten is just pulling out of the gate, dressed as stereotypical farmers in cow-patterned vests. The blind boy is wearing sunglasses and carrying a cane, just like he did in the Reaping.

"Yon!" someone—a man—calls from the sidelines. "Yon! Yon Trizzle!"

I recognize it as my father's voice, and turn to glance at him. He's standing near the front of the crowd, with a Capitol woman's arm draped around him. His face looks almost embarrassed.

I wave back at him and wonder what he's been doing for a moment before President Shadow comes up to the podium and begins her speech.

"_People of Panem, this marks the one hundred and ninety-first anniversary of the defeat of the first rebels and the end of the Dark Days. May we never forget the cruelty and horrors of the past, and look towards a brighter future: without war, without needless destruction, and without rebellion. The key to peace and order is in our hands, as long as we preserve the balance."_ She pauses, looking down at the tributes circling around the City Circle. _"To these tributes, and to all of this country: good luck, and good night. Tonight, the Hunger Games begin."_


	27. Beware the Determined Ones

**Let's try and hit 100 reviews, okay? Okay!**

**School starts very shortly, so expect updates to be less frequent with lots of hiatuses. Don't worry, gentle readers: I _will_ finish this story, even if it takes me years. I have it all planned out, mostly. ;)**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: August 18th, as well as being my birthday, was Merriweather Lewis's birthday and the anniversary of the ratification of the 19th Amendment, which gave women the right to vote. I know that has nothing to do with the story... _yet_... but I thought it would be a fun little thing to add.**

_Edit 8/26/11:_ Changes made due to careless oversight on part of the author. Tara's Games now have a set number.

…..

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

After the Opening Ceremonies are done with, the people around here mostly let us do whatever we want before dinner. So here I am, lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, thinking. Mostly about the Games (_what strategy should I use? What strategies have worked for people like me in the past? What should I focus on in training? Should I ally with anyone?_), and just a little bit about home (_is everyone all right? How are Ma and Da? The twins? Gram? Gramps... what in Panem has happened to him?_)

I roll over and sigh. These Capitol beds are too soft, too clean. Even though my family lives (lived?) in relative comfort, this kind of luxury is something new to me. I catch a glimse of some packet of paper on the nightstand beside me, and immediately reach for it. It's _something_ to do, even if it's just reading Capitol propaganda. I can always mock it if it starts getting ridiculous.

But it isn't Capitol propaganda at all. It's a Tribute Information Booklet, with short paragraphs on each of the 24 competitors of this year's Games, along with a headshot that was taken on the train. I flip through it, memorizing and analyzing my competition as any sane person would do. The girl from One is related to a lot of victors, but wasn't trained or a volunteer. The boy from Two looks like the biggest and strongest, although he might have some competition from the boy from Six. Several tributes have tried to look cunning or at least intelligent, but I can see through the ones who are faking. The boy from Three is the son of one of those "Capitol Representatives," but he has a prosthetic leg and is deaf in one ear. The boy from Eight, also rich, has absolutely no facial expression whatsoever.

And then I spot my photo, and skip down to read:

_**Chantelle Jacobsen** (D10G) is 16 years old. She is the granddaughter of a Peacekeeper and lives and works on a farm on the outskirts of the district._

I frown—how do _they _know so much about my life?—but continue on.

_She is the youngest of three siblings, the older two of which are out of the Reaping. Chantelle promises to be a challenger in these Games, as shown by her strong reaction to the Reaping!_

I never promised anything of the sort. The Capitol says some variation of that at the end of every single tribute's bio, even the girl from Six. I'm about to throw away the packet in disgust when Anderson's picture catches my eye. I might as well read up on my own district partner.

_**Anderson Birk** (D10B) is 16 years old. His older sister, Tara Birk, participated in the 188th Games and finished fifth. Even though he is completely blind, he has shown himself to be a force to be reckoned with and may, as the underdog, surprise us all with a victory!_

Ugh. These people make me sick.

I'm about to try and see if I can get some sleep when a knock sounds at my door. "Can I come in?" my mentor, Gavin, calls from the other side. I mutter a nonchalant, "yeah," and he bursts open the door, Anderson clutching onto his arm. What?

"Chantelle... look, um, this is a little hard to ask... you've got great potential and I think you could go very far in the Games... I sort of, um, need to ask you a favor-"

"He wants to know if you'll ally with me," Anderson cuts in calmly. "More like orders, actually," he adds a few seconds later. Gavin quickly nods.

I can feel my cheeks flush. What right does he have to tell me who I have to ally with? I can ally with anyone I want, or not ally at all! Why should I be tied to this blind boy who's just going to hold me up in the Games? I bite my lip, I can't exactly _say _that in front of Anderson.

Why is Gavin doing this, anyways? If he were a sensible mentor he would just forget about Anderson and focus on the tribute who might actually come home. That's the way things are supposed to go in the Hunger Games—each one for himself!

After a few minutes, I slowly meet Gavin's eyes and nod. "Okay. I'll do it. Sure thing." But inside, I know that the only reason I'd take on an ally is to stab them in the back.

…..

_Briana "Bri" Renay Geers, District Seven_

After dinner, they have us watch the recap of the Opening Ceremonies, although I really don't see the point. To get a look at our competition, maybe? But we already have the Tribute Information Booklet, and the commentators aren't going to say anything more than what little was printed in there. I'm not about to disagree on such a minor point, though, so I curl up on the couch and try to observe some things about my fellow contestants.

Che hasn't stopped talking since we've gotten to the Capitol, mostly making nervous jokes and prattling on about projectile weapons or something. I try to ignore him, knowing that this is just his way of coping, but it still puts me a little on edge. As far as I know, Che has never hunted or even picked up a weapon other than at his job. However...

I turn my attention back to the television screen, which is much sharper and more colorful than the one we have at home. The cameras are scanning over the cheering Capitol crowd, air charged with anticipation for the first chariot to roll out. The light from the sky dims—my eye twitches in annoyance; could it be artificial?—and the doors to the Remake center open, letting the golden splendor District One shower the City Circle.

The commentators begin analyzing the tributes, and I sit up. This is where I need to pay attention: the Careers, my biggest threats. They size up the boy first, a wiry 16-year-old whose grin is downright maniacal. Luka Saroque. I memorize his name and his face, cataloging him as a person to run away from really, really fast. Then they move onto the girl, a 14-year-old who was Reaped but apparently comes from a long line victors, named Emily Raine-

The wave of shock hits me almost instantly, and I close my eyes. Raine. Raine. Raine. Why is that name so familiar, besides occasionally hearing it on TV? Emily Raine. Fidella Raine-Thenn. Spark Raine-

Spark Raine.

My mind goes back to the night of my father's murder, that night in the woods with that strange man. _"Mr. Geers?" … "Who is this?" … the man coughed. "Raine. Spark Raine."_ It was barely a whisper, but I know I heard it.

"Briana, are you alright?" Aliena Candlewick asks, and then giggles again. "You're not feeling sick, are you?"

Now that she mentions it, my head hurts a little. I turn to her, opening my eyes once more. "Nah. I'm fine. I just..." I trail off, hoping that no explanation is needed. No one asks.

I barely pay attention to the rest of the tributes, instead turning to the Tribute Information Booklet and looking up everything they have on Emily and Spark Raine. Spark's was a surprise victory during the Games ten years ago; apparently the girl from Seven had been the favorite. _The girl from Seven._ Spark had snuck up on her with a knife (murder weapon) and overpowered her. He is Emily's uncle and her mentor, and apparently they're very close.

I had promised A.J. that I would win _for my father. _Could fate have given me a better opportunity? I offer up a quick prayer to Artemis; thankful, and yet asking for protection. After all, I would need all the help I could get if I were to survive to avenge Dad's murder. If I were to kill Emily, and maybe Spark, Raine.

My hands are itching to get on a bow.


	28. Making the Connections

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Carreen's creator did not realize the similarities between her character's name and the word "Career" until after she was submitted. The name was first used in _Gone With the Wind_ as the name of Scarlett's sister.**

…..

_Che Botill, District Seven_

When I wake up, I almost manage to forget that training starts today. _Almost._ The sun is shining through the window, the bed is nice and soft, and I can actually hear birds chirping outside, glad to be in the morning air.

And then I see the pink and green striped buildings out the window, and remember where I am. The rest of it follows. _I'm going to the Games in a week._

_I'm going to the Games in a week!_

We eat breakfast in silence, much to my discomfort. No one wants to start up a conversation. Bri's looking at her food with an almost scary focus, stabbing it with such ferocity that I don't want to get anywhere near her, even if she's half my size. Aliena keeps giggling, but I think it's a compulsive thing because her facial expression sure doesn't look giggly. Our mentors are nowhere to be seen—one is having a migraine and the other is probably drunk.

Aliena escorts us to the training room where most of the other tributes have already gathered. I swallow nervously. The Careers, while not that big, look... _intense_. The murderous type. I turn away, barely glancing over the other tributes.

When the training master's lecture ends, I head straight for the projectile station, hoping to get there before the Careers take over. Boomerangs, discuses, throwing spears and knives. Unfortunately, the Careers have other ideas and I end up making a beeline for the knot-tying station. There is one other tribute there—the girl from Eight, I think.

I give her a smile—hopefully not too wide, I don't want to look vicious—and say, "Hey. My name is Che." I pick up a piece of rope and try to copy the instructor's fingers.

"Parker," she replies, and I can _almost_ see her lips curling up shyly.

"You're from Eight, right?"

Yeah. And you're from..." She wrinkles her brow apologetically.

"Seven." There is silence for a few minutes. "Hey, you're really good at that."

She shakes her head. "Not great."

"Well, better than me, at least," I mutter, holding up my frayed mess of a rope, which is hopelessly tangled. She giggles. Hers is much prettier than Aliena's. "Um..."

"Wanna be allies?"

We end up saying it at the same time. Ironic, no?

…..

_Gabriel Maddox, District Four_

Carreen seems to be taking charge of the Career pack. I'd never pegged her a a leader, but I guess it's better than following Luka. That sociopath is currently taking every opportunity to disagree with her. She wants to go look at the tridents first, he wants to work with edible plants. Of course he doesn't really want to—what Career of his caliber wants to stop by the _edible plants_ station first? He just wants to annoy her, and it's almost working when Emily cuts in.

"Well, why don't we split up?" she says, running her fingers through her ponytail. She's being rather naive—not bonding during training means trouble in the arena—but I'm not about to but in. This isn't my fight, it's Carreen's. I'm just the tagalong.

Emerald eyes the other girl curiously, and I almost think that _she's_ about to object when her face brightens up and she says, "Sure." Something's not quite right about her...

Marius, as usual, glares. "Groups of two, then?"

"And not with our district partners," I put in. "No offense, Carreen." I just want the chance of observe the others—Emerald and Marius in particular—up close.

"None taken." She almost smiles, but then she turns to Luka and her mouth tightens. "Emily goes with Gabriel, Luka with Emerald, and Ill go with Marius." Darn. Well, she's not a mind reader.

We split off. Emily bites her lip. "Where do you want to go?"

I glance around. "Knives, I guess?" Her face falls. "Don't worry, I'm a beginner, too," I whisper, even though you couldn't exactly call either of us that. Even if we're pseudo-Careers.

We spend maybe ten minutes with knives (which I'm not bad at), and then some with swords (pretty good, actually), although anyone could tell that my attention was elsewhere. Carreen and Marius seemed to be getting along fine in silence, throwing pole-arms at targets. Luka and Emerald are having a low discussion over by the edible plants and bugs, and when he's not intimidating other tributes, I swear that Luka looks genuinely intrigued. Emerald is smirking slyly, and it's not until she notices I am looking that she returns to her usual eager face.

He says something and she laughs, putting in a comment of her own as she pulls him over to the bows-and-arrows station.

"Gabriel? Where to next?"

"Say we go for some edible plants," I mutter, and I hear her sigh with relief. I follow her across the gym, hoping to catch of fragment of the very out-of-character Emerald's conversation. No such luck.

Definitely two tributes to look out for. I put them at the top of my mental list.

…..

_Jacy "Jace" Faith Latone, District Nine_

Once the Careers are cleared out, I discreetly walk over to the fighting-knives station. I'm not going to delude myself—if I want to win the Games, I'm going to have to learn how to kill.

A couple of the other tributes seem to have the same idea, and I'm soon joined by the girl from Seven and the girl from Eleven. During the Reapings, I remember that they both struck me as smart ones, ones to look out for.

The instructor starts talking and the girl from Seven shifts her eyes towards me, looking me over. I nod at her, trying very hard not to get annoyed. In the Games, anything you do could be used against you. I've grown up with practice, but this is a life or death thing now.

After a short explanation, she hands out daggers and adjusts our grips on them. I cut through the air with the blade, getting a feel. I notice the girl from Eleven flinch, but it seems to be directed at the blade in her own hands rather than mine. She didn't strike me as the squeamish type, but...

The instructor shows us a few strokes, and then leaves us to practice. It's strange, how almost natural this weapon is in my hands. I almost forget that it's deadly.

I'm so focused on my own thoughts that I startle a bit when the girl from Seven speaks. She's young, but her voice resounds with maturity and wisdom. "My name's Bri. Do you two want to ally with me?" Well, at least she's direct.

The girl from Eleven squints and tilts her head, weighing her options. "Why do you day 'you two'?"

Bri shrugs. "Three is a nice number, don't you think?" She bites her lip and glances across the room to one of the Career groups. "And honestly, I feel like you two would be the best out of the bunch."

"What, because we all headed for knives?" I snort, trying to sound formidable yet not hostile. This girl has offered a challenge, if an indirect one, and I'm genuinely intrigued.

"We're all intelligent, and we don't delude ourselves about the nature of the Games," replies Bri. "Together, we can stand a chance against the Careers."

Well... if strength comes in numbers...

"Who says I'm not deluding?" the girl from Eleven—Caprice?-bursts out. "I, for one, have already pledged not to kill." She closes her mouth quickly, knowing that it was a grave mistake to say something like that to your competitors. Prime example of why silence is golden.

There is a slight pause, and then Caprice adds, "Well, I guess I'm in." She smiles slightly, and then turns back to her knife with a serious face.

"Jace?" Bri turns to me. Wait—she bothered to remember my name?

"Sure," I mutter. Maybe this'll work out in my favor.

…..

_Anderson Birk, District Ten_

"Anderson, this is ridiculous," Chantelle hisses. She's obviously not happy about Gavin's rather pretentious order to ally, and I'm not going to lie—I sort of wished I had the freedom to go about and choose my allies. Preferably ones more open to my ideas.

"I just want to try something out, okay?" I mutter. "You'll get a chance to practice—don't lie, I know you want to."

She stands up and takes my arm with a sigh, and together we walk out of the lunch room and into the training room.

Specifically, the fighting knives.

There is an audible gasp as I reach the station, and I can even hear some snickers from across the room. Good. The Careers are nowhere near.

"Um..." the instructor says. "Maybe you should try this some other time..."

"If not now, when?" I challenge. I grip Chantelle's arm tighter, and then quickly release it. I have to look independent.

The instructor mutters something under her breath and hands out the knives. She adjusts my grip; I get a feel for the grooves in the handle. She dictates what to do for a few strokes, and I try them to the best of my ability. Chantelle is holding her breath, standing perfectly still beside me.

"How was that?" I ask.

"Too wide," she murmurs. I adjust my fingers and slice smaller this time. "Better," says the instructor, voice noticeably shaking.

I can see I'm not wanted here, so I nod politely. "Thank you." Chantelle grabs my arm and I walk away, heading towards camouflage, a safer activity that we all know I will fail at.

But I've heard the sounds of battle every year since I was six, in the Hunger Games. All I needed to know was how to hold it and where the station was. Because guess what? People inhale right before they're about to attack.

It's not much, but it makes me feel a little stronger.


	29. Words Unspoken, Songs Unsung

**So... yeah. Finally getting around to the chapter. Sorry for the delay. School. *snorts***

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Four of the tributes—Thalia Trinket, Veras Valdez, Riley Rynne, and Kirby Knightly—have alliterative names. Or at least semi-alliterative names.**

…..

_Caprice Alexander, District Eleven_

I feel so _stupid_. I mean, I know they're my allies, but giving away my high-and-mighty game plan to some of the more competent tributes in the arena doesn't seem like it's going to fare well for me. At all. Besides, the alliance was pretty much forced upon me, which—as shown by many a Career pack—is _not_ good for stability. Bri and Jace don't seem like the type to stab a person in the back, but...

I lean back against the headboard of my bed and glance at the clock on the nightstand. Almost an hour until dinner, and nothing for me to do except worry about my competitors. Ack.

My eyes flit over to the booklet sitting next to the clock, and I reach for it. The Tribute Information Booklet. I had flipped through it a couple times last night before bed—it hadn't been very helpful, so I'd figured that I'd just watch them in training. I turn to Bri's entry and read it again, and then Jace's.

Their pictures say much more than words ever can. Although everyone was trying to put on an angle back then—myself included—they seem to exude genuine strength and subtle cunning, far more appealing than the false bravado of the Careers. They're going to be tough to beat.

I take in a breath. _You don't have to beat them, Caprice. You just have to beat yourself. You aren't going to play by the Capitol's rules, now are you?_

Of course not. I'm spending every moment of my existence trying not to succumb to the overwhelming dear, the panic, the instinct to do what ever I can to just _live_...

No. I'm not going to think like that. I'm better than that. I am in control.

The door opens, and I jolt upright, glancing around warily. The woman—one of the servants; Avoxes, did I hear Brubeck call them?— stands in the doorway, a bucket of cleaning supplies dangling from her right hand. I glance back down at the booklet, and then quickly back up at her. Silvery-blond hair. Pale skin. On the tall side. Light blue eyes.

I flip the booklet around and point to the headshot of Jacy Latone, tilting my head in a questioning indication. The Avox moves closer, eyes widening. She looks back up at me, wild with fear.

"I'm her ally," I say in a low voice. "I'm going to keep her safe." And I think I really mean it.

The Avox nods in silent thanks, and slips out through the door as if nothing had happened.

…..

_Noaa Carpenter, District Nine_

"_What do you mean, I can't bring my token into the arena?"_

My stylist, Cesaria, shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Noaa. It didn't pass the Gamemaker inspection. Neither did the girl from Three's screwdriver."

"How can a piece of paper be used as a weapon?" I demand, clenching and unclenching my fists as my face turns a million different shades of red. "It was just a _poem_, for the love of Panem! A few scribbled _words! _How is that dangerous?"

"More easily than you know," mutters Jace. I'm tempted to throw something at her, but I there's nothing nearby and besides, it's not her fault, anyway.

I sigh. "You know what? Whatever. I hate you. I hate you all." I storm down the hall to my room, hoping for some peace and quiet and maybe something non-breakable to throw to calm me down.

It's not even just the poem itself. I mean, I know every single word on that paper, and that's not going away anytime soon. It's just—that paper was _mine!_ It was the only thing I had! They have no right to take it away from me, even if it is treasonous or whatever!

I could always make myself a new copy and sneak that into the arena; it's not like the Gamemakers would notice. But it... it just wouldn't be the same.

After about a half an hour, I make myself get up and eat dinner. I've very nearly gotten over my fit—although the resentment is still there, lying underneath—but the other members of the "team" seem to be treating me with unusual kindness, shooting me sympathetic glances every five seconds. Yes, _even Bobby_. I'm torn between wanting to hug them and wanting to murder them, but instead I just try to stay normal. Lay low. Calm down.

My mentor and I discuss a few Cornucopia strategies, and then I head back to my room. I fling open the door and do a double take. _What the-_

The two Avoxes for our floor are standing on either side of the bed, hunched over a piece of paper and scribbling furiously on it. I blink. "What are you doing?" They turn to me, faces hardened with a scarily intense focus. I swallow. "Is that..." I take a few steps forward. "Is that my poem?" No response. I snatch up the piece of paper, which is covered with spindly handwriting.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY POEM?"

Before I know it, I'm screaming "GET _OUT!_" at the top of my lungs, crushing the paper with my hand. The Avoxes share a quick glance, and then head out with remarkable speed and calmness. What the heck is going on here?

It takes me a few minutes before I'm placid enough to open the paper without ripping it to shreds. My mouth drops open, and I know immediately that something much, much bigger is going on in the world.

Because these nobody Avoxes have, word-for-word, reproduced my poem.

But there's more of it. More verses, more phrases, all leading up to the fragment that had been my district token. Words threaded together seamlessly, in an almost song-like way...

I wonder if they knew the melody.


	30. I'm the Listener Underneath

**Hey, everybody. Sorry about the delay. Expect chapters to take this long from now on, okay? I promise that I _will_ finish this story.**

**Also, the Winter 2012 THG Awards have started nominations, so... if you catch my drift...? I don't want anything of mine nominated unless you honestly think I deserve it, but if you do, don't forget to nominate!**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part I. Nera Verona, escort for District One who always speaks REALLY LOUDLY, is named after 1) Roman Emperor Nero (feminized to Nera), and 2) Verona, the Italian city in which _Romeo and Juliet_ takes place; I was studying _Romeo and Juliet_ in school at that time.**

…..

_Link Anderson, District Three_

"Thalia!"

Her head pops up and she glances around as she snaps out of her daze. It would be almost comedic, except for the fact that, well, it isn't. This is the person who I'm supposed to be depending upon for life and death during the Games, and she can't even bother paying attention during training?

I'm probably being too hard. She's obviously smart, and some of those equations she was writing down were so complex even _I_ couldn't follow them. But what good are equations when you're being chased down by Careers? Then again...

"Link?" She looks over at me, and I let out a sigh. "Where do you want to start?" I ask.

We're making good progress, but still have a lot of ground to cover. Yesterday we plowed through edible plants, shelter-making, fire-making, camouflage, and water-purifying—all easy tasks, but necessary nonetheless. Thalia and I did reasonably well in all those areas, which is reassuring. Now that I've seen the other competitors, I think my odds are roughly 50%. Not especially good, not especially bad, but not average, either. Okay, maybe 43% or 42%, depending on the terrain of the arena. And then there's the sponsorship factor...

"Knots," she replies, and immediately starts walking in that direction. By the time I snap out of my thoughts and react, she's already there. Huh. We'd _both_ better start paying more attention. _C'mon, Link. Collect your thoughts._

As the instructor drones about some technicalities that I already know, I allow myself a quick glance over at the weaponry stations. I've been purposely steering Thalia away from them, not that she seems to mind any way. I saw what happened to the blind boy from Ten yesterday. If we go over there, everyone is sure to take notice. And that's not going to be good, because the whole point of having a secret skill is for it to be, well, _secret_. I'll just teach Thalia basic knife defense when we're in the arena.

As it turns out, Thalia is nothing less than a genius at making snares. It's... unnerving, really. By the time I've gotten the first knot in, she's already made a trap that can leave an enemy dangling from one leg, strung up a tree.

The unpredictability of our current situation is honestly making me feel sick. If my thoughts are so jumpy and flighty and I'm always thinking, how the heck am I going to survive in the arena?

_39%._

…..

_Parker Bates, District Eight_

I like Che. Really, I do. He's a good conversationalist, funny, and smart, in a down-to-earth kind of way. He's also optimistic, which is something I've been lacking recently. He almost makes me forget that I'm about to be shipped to my death in a week.

He's also a really nice guy. He treats me like I'm his little sister, or at least a good friend, which is more than I can say for any other person I've encountered since the Reaping. People should be nice to each other, even in situations like this. If enough people can find the decency to be as kind as Che, then maybe there wouldn't be anything as horrific as the Hunger Games!

I want to do something to make that happen. Not rebel or anything drastic like that, that would breed too much violence. Just... being nice. Being a friend, not just an ally. We can make the world a better place, maybe.

Hopefully. I guess.

I glance over at the water purification station, where the little girl from Six is standing, all alone. Even though I know she's not helpless, I can't help but think of Mouse. My own little sister. Who I promised to come home to.

I wish the world were a better place already.

…..

_Emerald Honeycomb, District Two_

My alliance is turning out to be much more formidable than I thought they were going to be.

We've split into different groups today, a surprisingly wise choice on the part of our _dear_ leader, Carreen. I'm working with Emily right now. Poor, pitiful girl. She hasn't got a clue what's going on. Incredibly easy to dupe. But the others? Not so much.

I can tell that at least Marius and Gabriel are suspicious of me. I suppose I _was_ being rather naïve when I thought _everyone_ would fall for my act, but it still bugs me that these aren't the overconfident, arrogant Careers of previous years, who intimidate everyone in sight and stupidly boast tot he world that they'll do anything to win the Games—while being stabbed in the back by their allies. It was kind of a major part of my scheme. Well, I suppose I'll have to improvise.

Luka Saroque also throws a huge wrench in my plans, but perhaps it's a good wrench. He's seen right through my act and offered a "Betrayal Alliance" yesterday. We can ambush the others together and then go our separate ways. He's incredibly crafty; that was a plan worthy of Emerald Honeycomb herself.

But as I catch his grin across the training room, I know that even he was underestimated me. I can see right away that Luka isn't sane, and plan to exploit that as much as I can. Why not? These are the Hunger Games, after all.

"Emerald? How do you..."

I let out a "good-natured" sigh and adjust the girl's grip on her spear. _There, there, honey,_ I'm tempted to mock. _Everything's going to be all right, trust me._ But of course I don't. I just grin wider, and bat my eyelashes in some pretense of innocence and wait for these Games to really _start_.

…_.._

_Mary Telva, District Six_

"Try again, sweetie. You'll get it eventually."

The instructor doesn't seem to care very much about my needs, instead preferring to focus on the two Careers throwing knives at the station to the left. I sigh and glance back down at my handiwork. _I_ thought it was perfectly decent camouflage, before I held it up to the actual forest backdrop and realized that the coloring was all wrong. I know that a lot of people dismiss camouflage for the weaponry, but I think it saved a boy's life back in one of the early Games, and my strategy is to run and hide, not to fight. What better way to hide than disguising yourself in plain sight? Right?

Though I don't think anyone's managed to hide out an entire Hunger Games.

I become vaguely aware of some voices behind me, and before I know it two other tributes—a boy and a girl, I think from Seven and Eight—have pulled up beside me. "Nice work," comments the boy.

I only nod weakly and turn back to the paint, which still doesn't work in the lighting...

The boy and the girl exchange a quick glance, and then the girl says, "Do you want to ally with us?"

My heart begins to pound, though I don't know why. "Um, thank you. Yes. Yes."

The boy grins and extends his hand. "Che Botill, District Seven. This is Parker Bates, from Eight."

"Neetamarie Telva, Six. Call me Mary."

Parker smiles a bit and brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes. "I think we're going to be a great team."


	31. Something to Live and to Die For

**We've been nominated for "Best SYOT" in the 2012 Winter THG Awards! Thank you to all my readers. I couldn't have made it this far without your support—and, of course, without your wonderful tributes there wouldn't be a story. So, without further ado...**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part II. District Two's escort, Wilder Cain, who has white hair and eyes and skips everywhere, is named for 1) Laura Ingalls Wilder, the author, and 2) Cain, the biblical character. Don't ask me why.**

…..

_Kirby Knightly, District Twelve_

My mentor said that the roof was the best place to go if you wanted a quiet place to think, so it's there that I find myself, rolling Fawn's ring along the ledge with my fingers and briefly wishing that there were no forcefield keeping me from the busy street below.

It's not that I don't want to go into the Games—I've accepted that fact, at least. It's just—this whole process, the opening ceremonies, the training, alliances, interviews, everything leading into these horrible death matches—it's just so hard, knowing that I'm following her exact same path, that I'm tracing her footsteps, conversing with her killers—

Look at me. I can't think. Half of the time, I can hardly move, hardly breathe. I'm dying inside. I'm not even trying. I know it's pathetic, and that Fawn put up a much stronger fight, but she was always a better person than me. She was my life. Without her, what do I have to live for? What do I have to... What do I...

It's a disgrace to her memory, this whole place, these whole _damned_ Games. I wish the arenas could be torn to shreds, burned to ashes, flooded with rainwater and lava. I wish everybody in the Capitol would be sent into their own Hunger Games, or at least this hell I'm living, or the hell _everyone's_ living back in Twelve—

But I'm not a rebel. I can't change anything. Fawn tried, she did. She tried to do one small act of kindness and unity, and everyone around her died. The Gamemakers don't want kindness, and the Gamemakers are the ones who control the arena.

I wish I could find it in my heart to hate the Gamemakers. I wish I could hate the _world_, or even myself. But in my heart, there's only a soft, sad pile of mush that was once called love.

I think Panem hates love. Why else would a nation like this exist?

I hear footsteps getting louder, coming from the stairway. Another tribute, coming up to reflect. Here's to hoping they'll come to better conclusions than I do.

…..

_Marius Sheer, District Two_

The boy from Twelve is the only person in sight. I would have preferred to come up here alone, but I guess that was too much to ask for. At least there are no other Careers I have to socialize with. I walk over to the ledge.

"Hey," says the boy. His voice is crackly and there are noticeable red spots under his eyes.

"Hello," I reply cautiously.

There is a pause during which the boy fiddles with a wooden ring, presumably his district token. I draw out Armen's chain and spend a little while staring at it, letting my thoughts drift.

"I saw you in the Training Center. You were really good with the spears," he says.

"Thanks." I was never good at conversation; then again, I never had to be when training for the Games. "So... what are you doing up here?"

"Thinking." He bites his lip. "About my girlfriend, mostly." My thoughts turn to Callia, how she's doing back in Two.

"Is she, uh, waiting for you to, uh, come home?"

"No. She's dead."

My eyes drift down to the necklace again. "Oh. Uh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"She died in the Games."

"Last year?" I can't even remember the girl from Twelve that year, as with most years.

"No. Two years ago. She made it to the final eight. Fawn Rivers." I vaguely recall the name. The girl who jumped in front of our girl's arrow to protect her ally. She was the laughingstock of the training center.

"There's a Career this year named Fawn, though she likes to be called Emerald. She may look sweet, but she's nothing like your Fawn." I've said the completely wrong thing and I know it, but the boy just continues staring into space. I think some more about Callia, wonder what it would be like to lost _her_ to the Games. Somehow it's not the same as losing a best friend. It cuts deeper, even though I could barely call her my girlfriend.

This is why I don't like to wonder about things.

The boy interrupts the silence once more. "Kill me in the bloodbath, please."

"Sorry, what?"

"Make it quick. Just a stab. With that spear of yours. I want to join Fawn as quickly as possible." He glances at me with pleading, too-blue eyes. "It's not like I would make a difference anyways.

"I-"

"Please. You have something to look forward to, while I have nothing. Please, Marius." _He knows my name?_

I nod curtly and turn away, too embarrassed to ask what his is.


	32. Out Here On My Own

**This story will mostly likely be on hiatus for the whole month of November. NaNoWriMo is fast approaching.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part III. Octavia Bubbles, the unintentionally discouraging District Three escort, comes from 1) Octavia, Katniss's prep team member, and 2) Bubbles, because she's, well, bubbly.**

…..

_Teagan Stratus, District Five_

Now that the Games are so close, panic is starting to rise inside of me. I try to tell myself to be calm, to learn as much as I can so that I can make a good impression on the Gamemakers and be prepared for the arena, but today I end up just numbly staring at the bow and arrows that the instructor has placed in my hands.

"Go ahead, try it," he says. His voice isn't gruff, but it's not exactly encouraging, either.

I aim at the target and release my hand from the string, glad to be rid of all that tension in my arm. The arrow flies through the air and lands maybe a foot away from the target.

The instructor shakes his head. "If it had gone farther, it would have lodged near the center of the target."

I know what that means. _Thanks, but no thanks. You're showing promise, but it'll take weeks before you're even close to using that as a weapon. Shooting a bow and arrow takes practice, muscle memory._

Well, how else is a person like me supposed to survive? Just running and hiding? I don't want to run anymore, I want to take control. I want to be able to defend myself, like... like Katniss Everdeen or something. I'm tired of hiding. Am I doomed to spend the rest of my life in fear?

Judging from the fact that I'm in the Hunger Games, the odds of anything other than that seem practically impossible.

…..

_Cameron Ray, District Eleven_

I want an alliance, but it seems everyone has already made their choices and excluded me. Caprice is working with two other confident girl, a group I doubt I'd be welcomed into. The blind boy from Ten is sticking with his district partner, and the Threes are a pair. Everyone else looks either weak or intimidating.

So I'm on my own. That's not exactly a problem—I'm used to doing things by myself, back on the farm. I've got some useful skills. I might make it.

The consequences for if I don't are too hard to think about.

My mind wanders back to Mom and Delilah. How are they holding up? The rest of our sector are supporting them, right? Delilah can do some of the simpler jobs on the farm, from watching me. It's not like I'm the _only _supporter of the family.

This would be so much easier if my dad were here. Or rather, there. In District Eleven, with my mom and my little sister. I don't know where he is now or even if he's alive, but somehow, I think everything would be okay if he were there to help us through.

Before I die, I wish I would get to meet him just once, if only for a moment.

…..

_Eadem Ordinaria, District Six_

"I always wanted a garden."

The edible plants instructor looks at me strangely. What, are we not supposed to talk about our wishes and dreams before we get shipped off to our deaths? Because I was just about to share my entire life story.

I continue, mostly to annoy him. "Back in Six. I always wanted a garden, but there was never enough room, and my mom didn't think it was normal."

He nods, and then picks up another berry. "Edible or poisonous?"

"Oh, that one looks nice. I like the blue color, it really stands out." Just as he is about to object, I cut him off. "Too bad it's poisonous."

People always say that, no matter what, you're not supposed to tick off the people in charge when you go into the Hunger Games. Bad things will happen to you in the arena, and you will _die_.

Well, that's what happens to _normal_ people. I'm not normal. I'll play by my own rules in these Games, or better yet, no one's rules at all. I'll defy every possible rule, and I'll live to tell the tale, because _I'm just that crazy_.

And when I get back to District Six, I'll plant myself a garden full of nightlock.

…..

_Veras Valdez, District Five_

The lines have been drawn, the alliances finalized. I plan on going it solo, of course. Allies would just hinder my plans, bringing me back to that fragile, emotional plane of existence. I'm above that. I can _think_.

I've managed to hit all of the worthwhile stations—edible plants, knives, fire-starting, water-purifying—and found them all far too easy. The real challenge will be putting them into practice in the arena, and keeping my head while I'm being chased by mutts or fighting other tributes. Practical applicability, the downfall of many a brilliant soul. Just not me.

I made a pledge to survive, so survive I will. Maybe I'll even live in the process, though that's statistically unlikely. I don't need much, just common sense, intelligence, swiftness, basic skills, and a way to sustain myself. And luck.

It's luck that's the unpredictable part. And even accounting for unpredictability still isn't enough.

I suppose I should add "instinct" to the list.


	33. Some Touch of Madness

**A long chapter to chew on before the hiatus comes... by the way, training _scores_ are revealed next chapter.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Since apparently no one bothered to remember the name of the District Four escort... this chapter's title comes from an Aristotle quote: "No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness."**

…..

_Idina Carrin, Gamemaker_

Whoever says that Gamemakers aren't supposed to play favorites is either a dirty liar or a naïve simpleton. Most likely the latter, although one never knows.

The Hunger Games is one huge contest of favorites, with us Gamemakers using the best of our wits and creative capabilities to see to it that our favorites have the best chance of winning. The one who supports the winner is the best manipulator on the panel. It may be a twisted game, but it's a fun one, especially for bored Capitol geniuses like me who would otherwise be surrounded by stupidity.

I usually gun for one of the Careers. Not just because they have a leg up on the competition, knowing how to fight and kill, but also because they're the most entertaining to watch. All the lies that they come up with, all that intrigue, those tense moments at their camp when you _know_ that someone's bound to break the alliance—sheer perfection. Since their odds of surviving are larger, there's less of a raw struggle and more of a cunning gamble for power. They're not the ones running for their lives, they're the ones chasing the runners. So much better.

I haven't gotten my heart set on exactly _which _Career I'm going to support, but by the end of today, that will change.

The first to come in is the boy from One, "Luka Saroque." He's got this huge grin in his face like he owns the world, and I'm about to discredit him as one of those arrogant fools who do stupid things in the arena when I notice the maliciousness in his expression. It's a smirk, not a grin. This I can work with.

Saroque somersaults over to the knife-throwing station, where he grabs a few of the blades and hurls them at the target across the room. They cluster around the center of the target. Impressive. Without missing a beat, the boy sprints over to the fighting knives and calls over one of the instructors to spar with. Within a minute or so, he's got the instructor pinned down with a knife to his throat.

"I'd kill you now, but I think I'll save my bloodlust for the arena," he chuckles. Obviously meant to tell the Gamemakers that he won't hesitate to slaughter his fellow tributes. An overused ploy by the arrogant ones. We _can_ tell which tributes are lying, you know.

Saroque pauses, locking eyes with Amata. "On second thought..." He presses his knife further into the man's throat. I lean forward. What, is he_ actually _going to do it? That'd be a first. "You can easily get a replacement, yes?" Now he's just taunting Amata, who's doing her best to look passive. There is another pause, and then Amata presses her intercom button. "You—are—dismissed, Mr. Saroque." Damn.

The next girl up, Raine, isn't nearly as formidable. She just shoots some arrows into the standard targets. The arrows hit the centers, but she's standing fairly close to the targets. More than that, though, she looks weak. Uncomfortable, not at all confident. How the hell is someone like _that _supposed to be a competitor? After shooting out all the arrows in her quiver and standing awkwardly in the center of the room for a few minutes, she is dismissed.

The boy from Two is good, but nothing special. I've seen his type before. He slashes at the training dummies with axes, spears, and other heavy weaponry. I admire his stoic, unshakable expression, even he seems a bit preoccupied. Yet I'm not so sure this kid can really _think_. I keep him in the back of my mind, but I'd rather sponsor Saroque any day.

I can say pretty much the same thing for Honeycomb—what a ridiculous name—who, although fourteen years old, seems like a kid compared to her fellow Careers and acts like it, too. She's pretty good at throwing knives, though, and there's something in her face that tells me she's much more competent than she looks. When I try to convince everyone else of that, they just stare blankly at me and give her a lower score than she deserves.

Hmph. Serves them right.

The Threes never interested me. Their main strength is intellect, not cunning, and they're at a distinct physical disadvantage. The lame boy from Three didn't even cross my mind until he strides into the training room, perfectly adept at moving with his prosthetic limb, and heads straight towards the katanas on the weapons rack.

Somebody tell me why this crippled nobody kid from the electronics district knows how to fight with highly specialized swords, because I honestly can't figure it out on my own.

The kid finishes sparring with the instructor—beating him in under five minutes—and sweeps the edible plants test almost as an afterthought before being dismissed.

The girl who follows him, Trinket, is much more of a standard Three fare. She looks a little dazed, but manages to string up a tribute-catching trap that even I can tell is pretty brilliant. Maybe I shouldn't discount the lower-district tributes after all.

I'm still sticking with my Careers, though.

The Fours are both surprisingly good. They go through all of their strengths without giving the impression of showing off or seeming fake, something that's very hard to do. Maddox, the boy, can tie all sorts of fishing knots and lift heavy objects with relative ease. His partner, Haggerty, is a wonder with tridents and spears and exudes a confident yet poised air. I noticed during training that she was the one directing the whole pack.

So, who to support? I hold a particular fondness for Saroque's ferocity, but I would very much like to prove myself right about Honeycomb's hidden depths. These idiots around me desperately need to be taught a lesson about appearances—and I'm _not_ just talking about having surgically implanted beetle wings or the colors of the milky-way galaxy swirling across your skin.

"Hey, Amata! Can I bet on two tributes?"

Our _dear_ Head Gamemaker sighs, and I can see the tension in her forehead. These Games are stressing her out? Well, let the Game begin. "Sure, Idina. Do—whatever—you want."

…..

_Claret Flame, Gamemaker_

I think that the interviews do a much better job of revealing a tribute's strengths and weaknesses than the training scores, especially in the lower districts. From years of studying the Games, I know that personality is a much bigger factor in the arena than weapon handling and the like. A tribute may put on a good show in the training room, but once they get into the arena, they go catatonic and get plucked off by some nonentity during the bloodbath. It's happened exactly 78 times in the history of the Hunger Games.

Of course, that isn't to say that I don't believe in training scores. That just means that, unlike Amata or Pericles, I don't dwell too much on assigning the perfect score. If the sponsors are too naïve to make a well-informed, rounded decision, then that's their fault, not ours. Amata says that that attitude is going to get me killed one day. So far, that day hasn't arrived. Obviously. Or else I wouldn't be sitting here.

Veras Valdez gives a little nod of thanks and walks out. The boy just exudes cool intellect and detached calculation. What interests me is that he's playing an angle for the Gamemakers and his fellow tributes, not just the audience. This is probably a front meant to block off his emotions so that he can manipulate everyone around him. He clearly knows how the Games work, at least the social aspect of it, and in my book, that counts for more than his perfect score on the edible plants test.

Teagan Stratus of District Five shows competency in all of the basic survival skills; fire-making, edible plants, and the like. She tries to shoot the bow and arrow, by the arrow misses the target. She picks up a throwing knife, which lodges in the outer ring of the target. In all areas, she seems mediocre—yet I remember at her Reaping, when she launched herself towards the stage with incredible speed. It's an unusual response to a panic, one which is just as likely to prove an asset in the arena as a weakness, and one that is _not _in any way able to be quantified. See what I mean?

The boy from Six, Eadem, looks like a maniac. His eyes are widened in a strange mix of fear, defiance, and glee as he runs training dummies through with a sword. He also scores nearly perfect on the edible plants test, and genuinely seems to be interested in these herbs and berries. It's an odd juxtaposition, the wild look in his eyes and the tenderness with which he handles the plants, and whatever it does to his psyche will prove most interesting as the Games progress.

I'm growing fonder and fonder of these tributes every minute, just because they're proving how _right_ I am about personality vs. training score. This is why I never bet on Careers unless I have a really good reason.

Eadem's district partner is a sweet little thing. That, combined with her noticeable lack of useful skills, pretty much guarantees that she will die quickly. In the entire history of 191 years worth of Games, there has been exactly one victor with a sweet disposition that hadn't gone insane by the end of her Games, and she had been surrounded and coddled by her more powerful allies. I'm afraid Neetamarie has no such luck.

Che Botill, District Seven's boy, is another tribute who appears mediocre in skills but proves exceptional in personality. I have watched him during training, seen his genuine affability towards his allies. Will this strength of character pull him through the Games? The numbers are sketchy, but I believe that about twelve victors have won that way. That's not a lot, but given the right circumstances, Che certainly has a sporting chance.

His district partner, Briana, is the clearest threat to the Careers that I can see, and not because she's an ace at setting hunting traps and working well with all sorts of knives. She is small but mighty. She has formed a strong alliance and acts with an intense focus and determination that most Capitol people can't even fathom. I wonder what motivates her. It has to be something beyond mere will to survive.

My heart sinks as I scan the face of the boy from Eight. I can't see anything—no emotions, no motivations, no anything. Nothing he's every done in training, at the Reaping, on the chariots—I can't get a glimpse of who he is. It's not even like he's wearing an emotion mask. It's just _blank_. The whole thought of it is depressing, and it makes me shudder.

Yon Trizzle stands in the middle of the floor and stares with those dull eyes into an imaginary point in the distance. And he just stands. And stands. And stands.

Amata turns on the intercom. "Mr. Trizzle? We are—waiting for you—to begin—your—demonstration."

A pause, and then a whisper. _"W...w-w-w..."_

"Mr. Trizzle?"

"Wh-what am I supposed to do?"

Amata doesn't respond. Yon takes a step forward, speaking a little louder. "What am I supposed to do?" He grabs something from the fire-making station and throws it against the floor. He doesn't look angry, just distressed. "What am I supposed to do?"

Next, the weapons rack is kicked over. Training dummies are ripped to shreds, and twists of rope are unraveled. Red camouflage paint splatters everywhere, and in the middle of it stand a confused coul, screeching, "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? THIS? THIS? WHAT DO I DO?" He hurls some large rock towards our booth. It bounces off of the forcefield and barely misses his head.

Amata hesitates for a moment, and then turns on the intercom again. "Mr. Trizzle?" Yon turns, giving her his full attention like a demented dog.

"What you do—Yon—is-kill. As soon as you—get-into that—arena, you kill—as many—people as you—can, and—then-go away—before they—catch you—so that you can kill—more-people-the next day. You kill everyone—until there—is-only you left."

The whole room is silent.

"Leave now, Mr. Trizzle." He obeys. After he shuts the door, everything bursts into chaos.

"You can't do that!" screeches Idina, banging her fist on the table.

"I—just did."

"That is _so_ against the rules!"

"Says who? Who—makes up—the rules, Idina, me—or you? Who's—Head Gamemaker?" she challenges.

"The President will kill you for interfering," notes Pericles.

"I—am on—good terms with—the President," she responds. Her speech impediment no longer seems awkward, but forceful, as if she were just pausing for dramatic effect. "Why—do you think—we've been—able to meddle—this long? Why do—you think—she hasn't replaced us—with the many—imbeciles—of our city—already?" She sighs. "They—don't like—us. No one likes—us. We're too—smart for—our own good."

Even Idina backs down after that.

…..

_Fabian Flynncher, Gamemaker_

After the incident with the boy from District Eight, the rest of the sessions go by in a blur. Even I barely remember the scores we assign and what the tributes have done to achieve them, and I've been told I have an eexceptionally good memory. Amata's warnings just keep echoing in my mind, and I come to realize that they're exactly true. We are the ones who are too smart for our own good, and so we find our calling in torturing district children and not assimilating with the rest of the Capitol population. Not that either of those are bad things, of course.

The boy from Nine is mediocre, his district partner fairly skilled. The blind boy from Ten has a predictably dismal score, but the girl does surprisingly well. Both tributes from Eleven have relatively high scores, considering the state of their district.

The boy from Twelve I do remember, mostly because the entirety of what he did was this: he stabbed two dummies in the hearts with two arrows, and waited to be dismissed. The others may have forgotten, but I still remember the 189th Games vividly, and I remember the girl from Twelve then, Fawn Rivers. She had a fiance back home.

Fawn Rivers and her twelve-year-old ally died with arrows in their hearts.

Kirby Knightly was her fiance.

This boy has committed an act of rebellion.

He is practically wishing a death sentence upon himself. Rebellion is something up with which I _will not _put. I will support these Games until the day I die, because they are all that I have. I will not let anyone take the Hunger Games away from me.

Knightly's district partner, Riley, shows off her skills with swords and knives. _She_, at least, gives us the show that we expect.


	34. Pay Attention

**Author's Note: I'm back! And I won NaNoWriMo, too. Also, I've started a blog for my original work (and some fanfiction). The link is on my profile.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Parts IV and V. Apparently, no one bothered to give the District Four escort a name. Also, the District Five escort, Thesaura Dictionaria, is rather self-explanatory.**

…..

_Luka Saroque, District One_

If I had a shorter temper than I have now, I would be strangling my _dear_ district partner for her incessant babbling and fretting over what training score she's going to get. Honestly.

"Em, calm down," says Spark, gesturing to the TV screen. "They're just about starting."

I flop down onto the couch and roll my eyes. I know for a fact that I stood out among the competition, so there's really nothing for me to worry about. I have the advantage in this arena. Unlike a certain District One girl I could mention.

Mercutio Templesmith, the young new announcer for the Games, starts off with a friendly hello and a reminder that this is "the 191st Hunger Games Training Score Announcements!" As if anybody could _forget_.

First up is Emily. They show a picture of her headshot and a little bar with statistics on it rolls out below the picture. "Emily Raine, with victory in her bloodline, has scored a 6!" chirps Mercutio. Beside me, my district partner buries her head in one of the pillows on the couch while Spark strokes her hair and murmurs things like, "It's gonna be okay, you'll do great, that's better than most of the competitors out there. I myself only got a 7."

Next up is me. I'm curious to know what the Gamemakers thought of me, even though it probably won't be affecting my game plan. "Luka Saroque, District One's pride and joy, has scored an 11."

_District One's pride and joy._ What an interesting tagline.

"There's my boy!" Ivan roars, laughing a little all while glaring at Spark. Emily's uncle offers me a cold congratulations, which I accept with a smirk. This eleven will give me luxuries like sponsors. As well as the added pressure of everyone trying to eliminate me, of course, but I can take them on. The only one I'd be worried about would be Emerald, and she and I have already made a deal.

Speaking of my rather shrewd ally, her score is up next. "Emerald Honeycomb, eager young challenger, has scored a 7!" _Eager young challenger._ She totally underperformed for the Gamemakers. And it _worked_. Good for her.

_Powerhouse of District Two _Marius scores a 10—natural, for someone of his size and strength. Next up are the Threes, whom nobody really is supposed to pay attention to. I still keep a note of them in the back of my mind, just in case: the girl scores a 6, not bad for a usually weak district, and the boy gets-

A 9? How the hell did _that_ happen?

The mentors start murmuring in the back of the room, mostly things like "better watch out for that boy." Emily lets out another little sob and I sigh. Whatever that kid managed to do to earn that score, we're going to get him in the bloodbath. Just wait and see.

Carreen's up next, and she manages to tie Marius's score of 10. _The next Poseidon of the Games _Gabriel scores a 8. Inwardly I laugh, not at the score but at the tagline. _The next Poseidon of the Games._ We all remember who the _first_ Poseidon was—that traitor Finnick Odair.

This new Mercutio guy is _really_ not good at announcing at all. He'll probably be replaced by the end of these Games.

Girl Five, nicknamed _"The Runner,_" gets a 5 and her partner a 6. The pathetic, weak _"sweetheart"_ from Six scores another 5 and her district partner an 8.

In the back of the room, I can hear Spark and Ivan's conversation growing increasingly louder and more like an argument. I catch phrases like "Too many high scores, it's not natural!" and "This is ridiculous. You just don't want your _precious_ little niece to end up on the edge of a sword for what you did!" Emily, who probably only heard "niece on the edge of a sword," runs out of the room, crying.

Serves her right.

…..

_Thalia Trinket, District Three_

The mentors and escorts are crowding around Link, clamoring for information about how his score beat out half of the Careers'. He murmurs something about odds and training and his dad, but they seem to want even more. "Please!" begs Octavia. "Now I actually have a chance at parties! I can tell them about you and your tragic story of overcoming your crippled-ness and your district to win the Games! I just need details! Details! Details!"

I sit back and sigh, looking at the screen. Since Link is busy, I should probably be taking notice of the other competitors.

District Seven is up next. My mind drifts back to the plans that I created for wood-chopping machines. _Just mechanize every step of the process. Use the chainsaws we make for you that the Capitol always buys out!_ I shake my head and snap back to reality. _Focus, Thalia. Focus._

Briana, the girl from Seven, scores an 11, tying with the boy from One. Wow. Not only do tributes from non-Career districts usually not get high scores, but there has never to my knowledge been a Games where there have been two tributes that scored 11s. I glance over at the rest of my district's "team." Octavia is still fawning over Link, but the rest of them have turned their attention to the mysterious Seven girl.

Her district partner scores a 6, quite predictably for his size. The girl from Eight receives a 6, too. I talked to her in the elevator after training. Well, more like she talked to me. Tried to draft Link and me into her alliance—I told them I'd have to check with Link. So far I haven't asked him. I really should...

The boy from Eight, Yon, scores a 9, like Link. That strikes me as odd. He just seemed so _dull_ all of the time. Either he's trying to hide his strengths, or the Gamemakers are up to something.

Now that it's come up, I can't stop thinking about it. I run over the scores in my head. _6, 11, 7, 10, 6, 9... _No tribute so far has scored below a 5.

The girl from Nine gets an 8, and her partner yet another 5. Chantelle from Ten also gets an 8; the blind boy, Anderson, a 2. Okay, so much for no one being below 5.

_6, 11, 7, 10, 6, 9. 10, 8, 5, 6, 5, 8. _There has to be some kind of pattern.

Both from Eleven score 7s.

_11, 6, 6, 9, 8, 5._ Something's not right here.

Another 7 is given to the girl from Twelve, while the boy from her district, Kirby, gets a 5.

_8, 2, 7, 7, 7, 5. Two 11s. Two 10s. Two 9s. Four 8s. Four 7s. Five 6s. Four 5s. One 2. Something's not right. Something's wrong._

_These Games are not normal._


	35. Personalities

**Happy holidays, everyone, no matter what you do or don't celebrate! **

**These interview chapters will be conducted in three parts: Districts 1-4, 5-8, and 9-12. This is part one.**

**Also, my blog, _Mapping Out A Sky_, is giving stories to readers who supply prompts! For more info, see _http:/mappingoutasky(dot)blogspot(dot)_.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part VI. Tafetta Allends, the District Six escort, was named after (a misspelling of) the fabric "taffeta" and... well, I'm not exactly sure how I came up with "Allends." I was probably thinking of the name "Allen" and then modifying it.**

…..

_Ivan Chekhov, Victor of the 173rd Games, District One Mentor_

Despite all the noise going on backstage about unusual training scores, the interview stage seems as normal as ever. Plush chairs that match the color scheme of the year. Too-bright lights that impair concentration. Too-loud audience cheering for your death—or, if you're one of the lucky ones, your victory.

Luka steps out from behind me, grinning. He sort of has the right to be: half the audiences out there are supporting him and his high score. He turns his head to glance at one of the backstage doorways, where the District Seven team is coming in. "What do you think _she_ did to match me?" he asks, gesturing toward the twelve-year-old girl. It's the first sign of interest that he's taken in a fellow competitor—the first sign to _me_, anyway.

I shrug. "I'll try to force it out of her mentor tonight and get the info to you before the Games start." A pause. "Pay attention tonight."

"I will."

"Not just to the high-scoring tributes or the sponsors. Watch _everyone_. The Gamemakers especially." Luka had told me what he had done for them during his training session, and he was coming dangerously close to the line between _"very impressive"_ and _"what the hell do you think you're doing, young man?"_

"What, because I ticked them off?" He laughs quietly.

"Yes."

"Ivan, these are my Games, not yours," he says, smirk fading. "I want to play them my own way."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of." I sigh. "Luka, when-"

"Ivan. I don't need your help. Not anymore," he insists.

"Fine." I throw my hands up in the air. "It's your funeral." I turn away, afraid that I'll start going sentimental on this brilliant but clueless kid. He should have realized by now that the only way to win at like is to play the Capitol's way, and anything else a person could do would be futile. Spark Raine proves that, the idiot.

And what's worse, despite all of my attempts to distance myself, I've actually started to care about the boy. _Great._

Luka takes his place on the stage with the other tributes and the countdown to the broadcast begins.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the interviews for the 191st Annual Hunger Games!"

…..

_Montague Lennox, Victor of the 142nd Games, Mayor of District Two, District Two Mentor_

This interviewer is a new one; new-ish, anyway. Two years ago is when Benj Palome, my interviewer, died and was replaced by this girl, Liya Marsalla. She has lime-green hair streaked with golden sparkles, which contrast her chocolate skin. She's a young one, around 25. Young for the Capitol, anyway. In some of stone quarries of Two, 25 is considered middle-aged.

Liya's hands are soft; they probably haven't worked a day in her life. Her fingernails are painted gold, and they stretch for several inches before clipping off at a sharp point, like daggers.

I shudder.

I don't know why I even bother paying attention to these things anymore. In fact, I don't even know why I bother mentoring year after year. It's not due to boredom or any lack of things to do—when you're mayor of a district, especially one like Two, you don't need any unnecessary distractions. It isn't for shortage of victors, certainly not. It's just... just... I want to make sure that these kids turn out alright. Not messed up by their victories, you know? Not obsessively staring at the Capitol people's hands like I am.

Hands.

_Hands._

_The boy with no right hand kills with his hook, bloody and painful. That boy from District Four with revenge built into his mindset, charging..._

The interviews have already started. The One girl is up, talking about her family of victors in hopes to play up her own probabilities of victory. She's sweet and polite and altogether quite appealing, if not the typical Career. Then again, she was chosen by luck, not her own will.

"What do you think will be your greatest asset in the Games?" asks Liya.

Emily bites her lip, thinking for a moment. "Assurance," she finally says. "If 190 people before me can do it, then I can."

I rather like Spark and Fidella Raine. Even though they're much younger than me, they're _of my kind_: Victors through and through, but not vicious or cruel. Strong, but still a little broken. If the girl wins, they'll raise her well. But the odds are against this innocent young girl, and from what I've seen, the odds always win. Emily Raine will not be breathing when she leaves that arena.

Her partner, Luka, takes the stage. He's charming, in a twisted sort of way, and isn't letting anybody forget about his score of eleven in training. I'm glad that I can't see his hands, because they would probably remind me too much of those of the Nine boy from my Games—_bloodstained, permanently, though not because it _won't _come off, but because he _wants_ it there, because he's a vicious sadist..._

"Tell me what you think got you an eleven," Liya says, eagerly leaning forward.

Luka laughs. "I can't give you the details, they're confidential. But if you're looking for a quality, I'd probably say... boldness." He chuckles even more, a bit maniacally. He knows that he doesn't have the right word, and I know it too.

Next up is Fawn Emerald, whom I know is trying to hide things from... from, well, everyone. Miranda tells me that the girl isn't even accepting her own mentor's help, only hinting at the fact that she's got her own plans. Marius has confided to me his suspicions about her, and so I'm paying close attention to her tonight.

"So, Fawn-"

"It's _Emerald_," she corrects with a wide smile. "I changed it 'cause I thought the name 'Fawn' would be too plain for a victor of the Hunger Games."

She's obviously playing up her confidence, to the point of _over_confidence. Her interview continues in this manner as she talks about her strengths in a way that makes them sound like weaknesses. I can almost feel the audience disappointment—they look forward to interesting, vicious Careers, not weak ones. Emerald's plan, whatever it is, is working well.

Then there's Marius. I'd anticipated that his weak point in the pre-Games events would be the interviews, just because he's not a great talker and is more than a little unwilling to share personal information. I coached him this morning, gave him a few lines to say that would impress sponsors. Let's hope there are still Capitol people with the right attention span willing to give him a chance.

"You seem a lot like your mentor, famous victor Montague Lennox," Liya observes.

Marius glances at me and shrugs. "I guess so. We both are good with spears. We both got 10s."

Are we alike? We have similar temperaments, after all: reserved, dignified. We use similar weapons with a similar skills set. The only difference is that I have leadership skills and Marius would prefer to be on his own. But that's what makes all the difference.

…..

_Fromme Lin, Victor of the 182nd Games, District Three Mentor_

People generally don't think of Three as a big crime district—well, let me tell you, it is. People go missing every day, and their families almost always get ransom notes demanding half their wages for the week. It's how a good eighth of the population gets their income. There are also organized murders and gang fights and grand thefts on a regular basis, all taking back in the back streets where the Capitol doesn't dare send its Peacekeepers.

People generally wouldn't have thought of 17-year-old me, a tiny, sallow girl with average marks and average Three looks, as the leader of the biggest crime ring in the district. They'd be wrong. I was tough and I was mean, and I had killed many times. People regularly told me I was crazy.

That was how I won the Hunger Games that year—experience. Thalia Trinket has no such luck.

She's one of those brainy, intellectual types that always makes me sick. Classic Three fare—smart tributes who think they're gonna come in and make some big electrical trap that wipes out all the competition with its cleverness, but have no clue how to properly kill a person. Especially not ones twice their size who've been trained to kill.

I don't pay much attention to her interview. Why should I? It's doomed to fail anyway—the girl has even less public speaking ability than she does experience with killing—and I honestly don't care what happens to her. It numbs the pain, if you don't think of 'em as people. That's something I learned when I was ten years old.

Scott's tribute, Link Anderson, is the one everybody's hoping on. Even me, a little bit. He says his dad—some hotshot Capitol representative for Three, not that that matters—taught him how to use "twin katanas," which are a type of sword. Hey, a Career by any standard has a better chance than a non-Career. Link also is a bit more socially adept than Thalia, which'll gain him favor with the audience.

I listen to a little of his interview, though not carefully. He's not my problem.

"So, Link, what do you like most about the Capitol so far?"

He leans back, thinking, and then says, "All the new, advanced technology. There's nothing like it back in Three."

That's the answer we're all supposed to give when asked that question: it makes us look intelligent, curious, and obedient to the government. I tune out the rest of his interview after that; if the kid couldn't think of anything original then, then he certainly isn't going to now.

I hear the audience laughing and applauding. I see Scott, sitting next to me, giving his tribute an encouraging smile. Scott was always too nice. I would love to say that "nice doesn't win the Hunger Games," but apparently it did for him. I briefly wonder if that's why his tributes are always more successful than mine.

…..

_Quill Isotes, Victor of the 184th Hunger Games, District Four Mentor_

"Anyone special back at home?" asks the interviewer, Liya.

Carreen's eyes brighten. She's been waiting for this particular question all interview long. "Well, there's my mother, of course, and my older brother Ray. He's 19 and a fisherman. There's my best friend Lily—we've known each other our whole lives and really support each other. And then there's Cedric..." She closes her eyes lightly.

"Who's Cedric? A boyfriend?"

Carreen nods. "Yeah. We've been dating for a while—actually, our six-month anniversary is going to come up during the Games. That's why he gave me this bracelet." She holds up her district token. "I would do practically anything to get back to him, as I know he would for me."

I lean back and smile. Good, she's taken my advice: give the audience a good reason to get you back home, and they'll bring you there. Love is a particularly strong one, as is a struggling family. I myself used the latter, and it's probably the only reason I lived.

The buzzer rings. Carreen's made a strong impression, as I suspected she would. Both of my tributes have a way with words and an air of likeability. Much like myself, I suppose.

Gabriel has decided to go for the mysterious route, almost the opposite of Careen's angle. He talks very little about his family or his life back in Four, but leaves half of the Capitol audience dangling for more. He makes it very clear that he has a reason to make it home, but won' disclose what it is.

"My luck might change suddenly, or someone might use it against me," he explains. "I'm a very private person. I keep many secrets... except, of course, from those whom I know I can trust." He stares out across the audience. "Can I trust all of you?"

Okay, that's a little over-the-top, but the Capitol swallows that kind of stuff easily. I can feel the buzzer in my pocket vibrating every second—sponsors for the District Four tributes.

Good. Sponsors will get them far. I want to help out as much as I can, because these tributes are so likeable and so much like myself and the people I love that I can't let them die. _If only there were a way that they could both win..._


	36. Us and Them

**Part two of the interviews is here! Sorry for the wait.**

**And I'm going to keep on advertising _Mapping Out a Sky_ up here, no matter how annoying it might get. Go to _http:/mappingoutasky(dot)blogspot(dot)com—_there's a new poll up, among other things.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part VII. Aliena Candlewick, the District Seven escort with an odd laugh, takes her first name from the fanfics of Penelope Wendy Bing (Aliena is the name used for Katniss's mother) and her last name from my own fanfic _Quell_ (Candlewick is the first president of Panem after the creation of the Games).**

…..

_Dr. Broca Jamen, Professor of District Studies at Snow University, Capitol Citizen_

The Hunger Games is the most exciting set of case studies a scientist like me could have on hand. They're not perfect, mind you—the arenas are always far too variable, as are the tributes—but it's a helpful tool for gaining insight into the lives of the district people. I've watched the full coverage for every single Games in the public archive. Someday I would _like_ to gain access to the tapes of games 74, 75, and 76, but I've been told they're confidential. This I don't understand. Everyone knows the basics of what happened in them anyways. And besides, those particular Games could end up critical in my research. They could provide the key evidence that proves district people are a separate subspecies of humanity.

Ah, well. I suppose I'll have to make up for that lost data by scrutinizing every inch of these Games.

The District Five female is currently being interviewed. She is obviously putting up the front of an agile, instinctive fighter while trying to hide the fear building up inside of her. It's intriguing, the way these district people feel the need to hide their true natures from the Capitol. That would be an excellent topic for a paper, one day...

"And who do you have cheering you on at home?" asks Liya.

The female swallows. "M-m-my sister. And my... my uncle." It's the first time she's stuttered so far in this interview. Her fear breaks through very clearly for a moment, then dies down as she gains composure.

"Can you tell us more about them?"

"No," she says immediately, and her buzzer rings.

Next up is her district partner. From what I've observed of him so far, the "mask defense" (as I like to call it) seems to be integrated into his personality—he is in no way willing to show emotion. This is a part of his fabricated persona, that of a cold, rational-minded individual always one step ahead of the competition who will not even let his own emotions get in the way of winning. I like to imagine that underneath that persona is nothing but an arrogant youth prone to thinking himself and his intellect superior to everyone else.

Some irrational, emotional part of my mind decides that I hate him.

"So, Veras, what do you think your strongest asset will be in the arena?"

He taps his head. "I can think, and I can observe. Deduction is only one of the sciences that I've mastered, but it is among the most useful." He leaves it at that.

_I want to watch him die_.

Huh. I've never thought that way about an animal before.

…..

_Libera Imperitrix, Capitol Citizen_

The Games always make me so sad. Other people think this is weird, as they relish every moment of bloodshed in the Games—and don't get me wrong, I'm not squeamish, and I do like a good fight. What makes me want to cry is whenever a cute, defenseless little twelve-year-old is killed.

They're so innocent and loveable, like kittens! _Nobody_ that I know wants to watch kittens be tortured and killed! And these—these are _kids_! They're—well, they're _not_ just like you or me, I do know _that_. But they're just so cute... too cute to kill.

Neetamarie Telva—Mary, I've heard she likes to be called—is a prime example of what I mean. Twelve years old, tiny, friendly and sweet but so, so afraid. She's not shaking during her interview, but her lower lip is trembling and I'm half-expecting her to burst into tears. I bite my own lip and let my thumb hover over the sponsoring button.

"I saved my friend Margaret from being crushed under a voltage machine!" she suddenly cries, much to Liya's—and the audience's—surprise. I can tell she's not lying or exaggerating, but some of the audience looks skeptical. Mary crosses her arms and continues. "It's true, I did. We were touring the generators and they were transporting this heavy thing with ropes and our teacher was stopping to explain the pulley system that lets them carry that through the air across the factory floor. Well, the rope snapped and it came crashing down and I pulled Margaret to the side and... only her legs were crushed. But without me, she would have died." Mary breathes heavily, knowing that this might be the only chance to get sponsors.

I immediately jam my thumb into the button on the side of the chair, and I can hear a few beeps from around the audience. The poor thing isn't so defenseless after all. She obviously can think quickly and now that she has a few sponsors... I sigh in relief as all my guilt washes away. Now I can sleep at night, now that I know we're not sending anyone off to be slaughtered without a chance of survival. Now that Neetamarie Telva has that chance.

A chill runs through my spine as her district partner, an eighteen-year-old, sits in the spotlight. He refuses to look at the interviewer and instead stares straight at me. It's like his crazed eyes are drilling into my soul. Any sense of comfort that I might have gotten after Mary's interview has blown away with the wind.

"My name is Eadem Ordinaria." A grin spreads across his face. "I used to be Eadem Lovett. I am eighteen years old. My mother wants me to be normal, but I'm not. I'm going to show her exactly how special I am." He laughs, and out of the corner of my eye I can see President Shadow rising, ready to cut off this creepy interview if necessary. Eadem just continues. "I was sent to the Hunger Games. But don't you know? I didn't die. I didn't win. I _escaped_."

A buzzer sounds, far before his three minutes are up. Eadem is escorted back to his seat by the Peacekeepers. And one thought keeps returning to the front of my mind, no matter how hard I try to keep it down: _Why do you feel for Mary but not for Eadem, or Briana, or Kirby, or Anderson? Do you think it makes you more morally upright than the rest of the people in this city?_

The answer is _yes_, and that disturbs me.

…..

_Lincoln Jefferson Aetius, Vice President of Panem, Capitol Citizen_

I catch Shadow's eyes as she sits down and find myself surprised, as always, at how composed she manages to look, even in the most trying of situations. Her lips are pressed into their usual thin line. Her gaze remains sharp, but there is no discernible trace of anger or even frustration in her hazel eyes. There are only two signs that something might be amiss: the fact that she's drumming her fingers against the arm of her chair, which she _never_ does, and the sudden increase in Peacekeepers lining all the exits and entrances of this building, hands on their guns.

I wonder briefly if Shadow would actually be paranoid enough to order the shooting of this entire room of Capitol people, but then dismiss it. Shadow does things much more subtly than that, and she likes to avoid bloodshed as much as possible. She's learned from the mistakes of her predecessors.

Leaning back, I begin to mutter under my breath—soft enough so that no one can know we're communicating, but loud enough so that the president can hear. "Anything to be concerned about?"

She just stares straight ahead. "I can deal with this on my own." Her gaze now seems to be fixed on the girl from Seven, and her finger-tapping slows ominously. I sit up and start paying attention to the interview. Briana Renay Geers is being grilled by Liya about her training score and what that might mean for the history of the Games.

"As far as I know, a 12-year-old has never gotten an 11 before. Do you think you'll end up being the youngest victor ever?"

"I certainly hope so," says Bri. "But it's all up to what happens in the arena, isn't it?"

"Well, may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Liya says with a grin. The buzzer rings and Bri's district partner ambles up to the chair.

"Rebel," hisses Shadow under her breath. I turn my head and then quickly look away, reminding myself not to draw attention. "Who, Che Botill?" I mutter back, raising my eyebrows.

"No. Geers. I recognize the name." She leans back and folds her hands, pretending to at least be interested in this interview for a few seconds. There must be a camera on us. After a few seconds, she continues. "And there's no way a Capitol-faithful, law-abiding _twelve-year-old_ can have such skill in archery."

"Archery?"

"I watched her private training session." Shadow suddenly bursts into laughter along with the rest of the audience, apparently in response to some joke Che has made. It's a little uncanny, how easily President Shadow can divide her attention and fool the masses. I wish I had half that skill. But I was never a good liar, anyways.

"This Capitol food is ridiculously good, though I have found myself having nightmares where a bunch of singing turkeys are hunting me down in the Games and I have to eat them all to survive." A panic-stricken look slides onto his face and hangs there for a moment before being replaced by a goofy grin. "But if I've gotta die, I want to die eating turkey and pudding."

Another big laugh. Personally, I don't find it that funny, but apparently this affable boy from Seven has managed to get into the humor mindset of the Capitol. Great for him.

Suddenly, Shadow leans forward and starts tapping her fingers again. "Somebody's trying to take us out of office, Aelius," she mutters. "The districts are starting up another war. And they're using the Games as their tool." I shudder. A smirk spreads across her face. "Well, we'll see about that."

…..

_Deluna Etoile, Capitol Citizen_

"You seem like a friendly girl, Parker. Tell me, have you made any _alliances_ yet?" Half the audience leans forward, eager to hear a tidbit that might affect the blood levels in the arena. I lean my head on Mick's shoulder and pray that we can go home soon.

"Well..." She smiles coyly, and the people in front of us press their buzzers to sponsor, charmed by her sweet attitude. "I have."

"With whom?"

Parker looks behind her at some of the tributes in their chairs. The boy from Seven nods at her and she bites her lip. "Che and Mary."

I'm _so_ bored. Normally, I'd be sitting on my couch at home making snarky remarks to my friends about how stupid these tributes are, but Mick's in town right in time for the Games and, sure enough, he insists on dragging me to every Games-related event possible just because his _son_'s in them.

I mean, seriously? Mick has sons all over the Capitol and he doesn't give _them_ a second glance. But no, this is his _district_ son, the only son he's _supposed_ to have, and Mick wants to _care_ for him and _make things right_ and blah, blah, blah.

He's even pressuring us to _sponsor_ the kid. Geez. I mean, I might have considered it before, what with Yon's high training score, but now I'm not even going to bother. I'm sick of Mick's worrying and groveling and whining. I want him to pay attention to _me!_

Mick bolts upright as the name "Yon Trizzle" is called, eyes wide with something that resembles fear. I lean back and cross my arms. Yon, Yon, Yon.

Liya squeals. "Tell us about that _training score!"_

The boy blinks. "It was a 9." His tone is so dull, I bet he's lost half his sponsors by now. Unless, of course, they're under the impression that he's playing hard-to-get with them or something. Snort.

"I know!" says Liya, all fake enthusiasm and stupid smiles. "Very impressive for a boy from _your _district!"

Mick cringes at this for some reason. I roll my eyes, and he turns to me, pleading. I know what he wants me to do. He wants me to press that little silver button on the side of my seat and give up my hard-earned money so that his pathetic little twerp can stand even more of a chance in the arena.

"I'm not going to do it, you know," I hiss. "I'm not like your other girls, Mick. I don't _live_ to please you."

"Del-"

"No. That's final. I'm sponsoring the girl from Ten." Mick turns away. He's angry, I can tell. But he really shouldn't be. He should learn to _get over it_. Apparently, being emotional and clingy is a unique district trait.

Well, I'll help him lose it. Mick Trizzle is has to become Capitol through and through, just like he has to be _mine_ through and through. His son's death is just what I need to spark that transformation. I'll make sure that when Yon Trizzle is killed, Mick won't feel a thing.

And neither will I.


	37. Come Home

**I'm so sorry, you guys. I'm well aware that my writing and posting speed has slowed down dramatically. That's Real Life barging in and yelling at Fanfiction to give Amata back so she can devote all her attention to schoolwork. Annoying but necessary.**

**With that being said, there will be one more chapter after this one before the Games actually begin! Exciting, isn't it? Okay, maybe I shouldn't be getting so excited about killing off all these wonderful characters, but still...**

**Also, just saw the Hunger Games movie and enjoyed it very, _very_ much.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part VIII. The District Eight escort, Gregor Dellacroy, is named after 1) _Gregor the Overlander_, another book by Suzanne Collins, and 2) a deliberate corruption of the surname "Delacroix".**

…..

_Darian Latone, Father of Jace Latone, District Nine_

_Don't say anything stupid, Jace._

That's the first thought that runs through my head as my daughter steps into the spotlight on that stage. Of course, I know Jace wouldn't say anything of the sort, especially not on national television. She's too smart for that. She knows too well the destruction that one wrong word can bring.

I wonder if Sylvie's watching this right now. If she's still alive and able to watch, that is. No one's really sure what happened to her all those years ago or what's happened since. I only managed to catch the words "relocation to Capitol" before the flurry of sobs and screams and knives and _mutilated tongues_ and blood on the kitchen floor—

I wonder if Sylvie and Jace have ran into each other. Would Jace have recognized her mother? Would Sylvie have had the heart to try and tell her who she was?

I force myself to stop speculating and focus all my attention on Jace's interview. It seems to be going well so far. Liya is asking the standard questions (_what were your impressions of the Capitol? who's rooting for you back home? nice training score—tell us about that!_) and Jace is giving all the standard answers. She seems to be playing the "stubborn" angle, which works well given the lack of detailed information that she's giving, with a dash of her natural snark thrown in that seems to be delighting the audience. Which is a good thing. Keep the audience and the Capitol happy and you have a much better chance of survival.

"So, Jace," says Liya, "this has been fun. Our time's almost up; do you have any final remarks for our audience?"

Jace's bites her lip. I know she doesn't really _want_ to do any of this, but to refuse might cost her some sponsors, so she talks. "I won't let you down in the arena. I'm going to put up the hardest fight I ever have in there." Her voice is quieter than usual, but her gaze is intense. Jace knows exactly what the Capitol wants to see. They want to see teenagers from the districts struggling for their lives. And she's planning on giving them that, exactly that. Nothing more, nothing less.

Her buzzer rings and I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

Noaa Carpenter, her district partner, is interviewed next. He's likeable enough, answering Liya's questions with the sensitivity of an artist that some of the more sympathetic Capitol people will appreciate. I wonder if Jace has allied with him.

Liya asks him about his district token.

There's a change in Noaa's face, and I know that he's angry, angry beyond belief. The boy isn't even trying to hide it. He clenches his teeth and glares at the Gamemakers' panel as he says, "It was taken away from me."

"Oh? What was it?" Liya leans forward, expecting a juicy secret to surface.

"It was just a poem. Not a weapon. Nothing dangerous! Just words on a battered old piece of paper."

_Words_ are _weapons._

"Maybe it was an artifact," suggests Liya. You can tell she's on edge, trying to cover up something she suspects is a secret. "You know, from before the Dark Days. We're trying to organize a museum of them here in the Capitol."

"But it was_ my _poem." Noaa is far too angry for the Capitol's comfort now. His anger is a rebellious anger; never a good thing for a tribute to show, especially not the night before the Games. I find myself hoping that Jace hasn't allied with this boy, who obviously isn't thinking about the implications of his words. Just like Sylvie didn't think...

_Keep the Capitol happy, and you might survive. Anger them, and you never will._

…..

_Landon Jacobsen, Brother of Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

It's eerily quiet at our house. The TV's volume is turned down to the lowest setting possible, and neither Annalise nor I say anything. Even Max just sits there, staring at the screen and whimpering a little, and that dog is _never_ quiet. It's like he knows that too many people are gone.

"Anna," I say, half-whispering. "Chantelle's up."

Annalise comes over from the kitchen area, carrying our dinner, a sandwich for each of us. She sits on the couch and hands me my sandwich. We both train our eyes on the TV screen while I turn up the volume, just in time to hear the interviewer ask, "What's your family like, back home?"

The Chantelle on the screen looks a bit wary. I know she heard the gunshots at the Reaping but never knew the outcome of the situation, and she _certainly_ doesn't know if she's allowed to refer to the events on national television. After a moment's hesitation, she starts, "Well, there's my mom and dad, of course, and my older siblings Annalise and Landon. They're twins. There's also Gramps and Gram... my grandparents... We all live on a ranch near the outskirts of the district."

Annalise scoots a little closer to me and lets out a barely audible sigh. _Oh, Chantelle. If only you knew._

But then again, maybe it's better if she doesn't know. It might have devastated her, to get that news right before the Games. It's better if she still has the energy and the spirit to fight her way through the arena. And if I know Chantelle, fight she will.

I glance at Annalise, who's staring wide-eyed at the screen, almost looking as if she were about to cry. I know this is so hard for her, maybe even harder than it is for me. All those goodbyes and apologies and "I love you"s that she never got to say. All those times that she flat-out didn't care about Chantelle, times that she might never have the chance to make up.

All this time I've been sitting with Anna in silence has made me realize that Chantelle was so... _alone_ all of the time. And that pretty much breaks my heart. I hope she knows that her family—whatever is left of it—cares about her.

_Come home, Chantelle,_ I think. _Come home and I promise you'll never be alone again_.

Chantelle's district partner, the blind boy, Anderson, is helped up to the chair. I can't help but feel sorry for him. I don't know what happened to his family. In the riots that followed the Reaping, no one—especially not if you were related to the tributes—was safe. The Peacekeepers seemed to take a sadistic pleasure in "cutting down the crowd". And here he is, thrust into the Games when he has pretty much no chance of survival. I can't even imagine what that must feel like, much less how Anderson is managing to deal with it so well.

Apparently, a similar question is on the interviewer's mind. "Anderson, I don't believe that in one-hundred and ninety years worth of Hunger Games we've ever had a tribute quite like you."

"Blind, you mean?" His tone is caught halfway between being morose and hopeful. His... _uniqueness_ might endear him to a few Capitol sponsors, although they'd have to be incredibly reckless to bet too much on such a lost cause.

"Yes. How do you think this will affect your performance in the Games?"

There is a long pause; obviously this is not the question Anderson wanted to hear. He bites his lip and says quietly but forcefully, "Don't forget me. Don't forget my face. If I really am the first blind person to go into the Games, then I want to be remembered for it, regardless of whether I live or die." The fact that his eyes are closed somehow makes his words more powerful. "I don't even care about your money. I just want to know that you _care_ about me, that your hearts are with me."

Well, if _that_ doesn't make every heart in the districts melt, I don't know what will.

I want to root for Anderson, maybe send him some food or something, but I know that if Chantelle is to return, he can't. He'll have to be just another victim of the Games, of the Capitol's cruelty. It's an awful thing, but I'm powerless to stop it. There can only be one victor, and it's going to be my sister. It _has_ to be.

…..

_Delilah Ray, Sister of Cameron Ray, District Eleven_

Caprice Alexander is exactly the kind of tribute I'd like the most if this were any other _normal_ Games. Intelligent, calm, likable, and, most importantly, really strong-willed. She's making it clear that she's not going to let the Games change her.

"I'm a person," she tells the Liya Marsalla. "I am a living, breathing,_ thinking _person and _I'M-_" She starts forward, looking scarily angry for a moment before regaining her composure and continuing in a quiet but firm voice. "I am going to try my hardest to stay that way."

"No doubt you will," says Liya.

I don't think that means anything to the Capitol audience, but it does to me. Words like those are an inspiration to us back in Eleven, where every day in school it's hammered into our heads that we're just laborers and incapable—no, _unworthy—_of thinking for ourselves. Caprice is the kind of person I'd rally behind.

But it's her district partner that I'm watching, because that boy tribute is my brother Cam and more than anything I want him to make it out alive. He got a good training score, which normally would make me hopeful except that so many other tributes scored so high. What scares me the most, though, is how defeated he seemed after the reaping and on the chariots, and how defeated he _still_ seems during this interview.

_"Cameron, you'll try to come home, right? You're strong. You can tie ropes better than anyone I've seen. You know how to skin and kill animals, at least on the farm, so you can hunt..."_

"_Goodbye, Delilah..."_

His whole body was so... limp, and his eyes just didn't show the life that had been in them only an hour ago...

"So, Cameron," says Liya. "We were looking at your family records after you were Reaped and found out that your father was a tribute in the 180th Games! Tell me, how does that legacy affect the way you're going to play the Games?"

There's a pause as Cam, Momma, and I all start to realize what was just said. A second later, Momma lets out a shriek of sorts and grabs my hand to pull me away from the television set.

"What? What's going on? What was she talking about? Momma!"

She's on the verge of tears, sobbing and swearing under her breath. We make it out the door of our little house and into the middle of the street before she breaks down, falling onto her knees and crying uncontrollably.

"Momma, calm down. What were they talking about?"

She doesn't respond. I take in a deep breath and try to be calm.

The 180th Games. That would have been right around when I was born. If Dad were of tribute age then, then they must have been young when I was born and even younger when Cam was. But that's common, here in Eleven. So why would Momma have tried to hide it from us?

_Because he was in the Games,_ a part of me realizes. _Momma watched him die. Probably a horrible, bloody end. They would have shown the footage over and over again during recaps. She wouldn't want to be reminded, and she certainly would never have wanted us to see the footage and know it was our dad. So she managed to convince the whole sector to stay quiet about it..._

With this rolling around in my head, it's a miracle that I manage to get myself and Momma back into the house in time for the final few moments of Cam's interview. They're still talking about Dad when Liya asks if he has any last remarks.

"I do," he says. "All my life, my dad's been kind of this big mystery that I was constantly wondering about. Now I know who he is, what he did, and why. We're finally connected, somehow."

I'm surprised at how calm he sounds when he adds, "Now I have closure. There's nothing left to wonder about. I can go in peace."

He doesn't say "die," but we all know what he means.

I press my hand against the screen of the television and shake my head, tears blurring my vision. This isn't right. This isn't fair. Is Cam really giving up, just like that? Just because he knows what happened to Dad? Does he think it's his _destiny_ to die like this?

_Come on, Cam. Please don't give up._

_Come on. You have people to come back to. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don't throw it away._

_Please._

…_.._

_Danielle Hemsworth, Friend of Riley Rynne, District Twelve_

When Riley walks onto the stage, my heart sinks a little, because I can tell she hasn't been holding up well in the Capitol. There were hints before—her expressions at the Reaping and on the chariots, her training score that was so much lower than what she deserved—but this is the final proof. The way she holds herself, the way she speaks—it's exactly the way she was when I first met her. Hurt. Traumatized. Sliced up and abused by the people who should have loved her until she had no sense of self-worth.

The Capitol does exactly the same thing to its tributes, to the people of Panem. Riley can see the similarities all too clearly. And it's breaking her.

The interviewer tries to talk to her about plans for the arena, strengths, possible alliances, but none of it's doing any good. My best friend is dying inside, under those lights, and there's nothing I can do to save her.

"My name is Riley Rynne," she mutters under her breath, ignoring any attempts at a conversation. "I am 17 years old. I lived in District Twelve, but Twelve is not my home. I have no home. I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games and I can fight. I can fight with swords. I can win. I'm strong."

And then it starts over again, repeating and repeating like a mockingjay that only knows one song, until it utterly fails to convince anyone of Riley's strength or mental stability. Her body remains absolutely still, her gaze fixed on one of the cameras as if she's staring straight into District Twelve. A chill goes down my spine.

The buzzer rings and Riley leaves the stage. Kirby, the baker's son, takes her place and begins to talk about growing up in Twelve, the family he's left behind, and Fawn Rivers, our girl who died three years ago, his fiance.

"So that makes at least... what, _five_ tributes with family members or close relations who've previously gone through the Games?" Liya says, more to the audience than to Kirby. "Emily Raine, Marius Sheer, Anderson Birk, Cameron Ray, and now you."

Kirby nods gravely. "Do you remember Fawn? She jumped in front of an arrow to save a twelve-year-old."

There is a pause. "Um... there was a lot going on that year, but yes, I do think I remember something." Liya doesn't sound convincing in the slightest. Kirby's hand clenches into a fist.

_I_ remember Fawn. I _knew_ Fawn—she lived just a few houses down the street. Her parents were tailors. We went to school together, and she always gave the younger Seam kids part of her lunch. I remember when she jumped in front of that arrow, and I remember Riley telling me that she wished she could be half that brave.

I remember telling Riley that she already was brave, standing strong despite all the suffering her family had caused her. And then we watched Fawn Rivers die...

My hand grips the hilt of a sword and pulls it off the rack as I storm out of the training center. Riley was brave and smart and kind and sad and sure as _hell_ didn't deserve the treatment she's getting. I can't take it out on the Capitol—not _yet,_ anyway—and so I do the only think I can to avenge my friend.

I walk over to the butcher's shop and run Riley's so-called-father straight through the heart.


	38. Last Midnight

**Here we are at last. The next chapter will be the start of the Games, and I hope you're all as excited as I am! Thank you, all you dear readers, for supporting me and continuing to be patient even when it takes me months to hammer out a chapter. And now, without further ado...**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: The deadpan snarker of a District Nine escort, Bobby, was named after the protagonist of the musical "Company", music and lyrics by (who else?) Stephen Sondheim.**

…..

_Twelve._

Riley Rynne stares up at her ceiling, wide-eyed and unmoving, willing herself to be brave for what might be the last time. She thinks of Danielle and for a moment she is strong and fearless, but then a memory flashes in her mind and she automatically flinches, feeling the whip of a lash on her back from so many years ago. _At least the Games won't be as painful as what I've been through, _she thinks. She might be right. But she's probably wrong.

Kirby Knightly dreams of a world that is too good to be true. It is a world of abundant food and endless meadows of surpassing beauty, a world where peace and joy and justice prevail and Fawn Rivers is alive and well. A song comes to his mind, a lullaby, one of the old songs of his district, and he and Fawn embrace. They live into old age together without the threat of the Hunger Games tearing them or their family apart. Yes, this dream is far too good to be true, but at least Kirby is content.

…..

_Eleven._

Caprice Alexander is pacing, unable to sleep, thoughts running at hundreds of miles an hour. A noise comes from the door and immediately she grabs a pen from the desk top and holds it like a knife, poised to throw. _Damn. _She throws the pen against the ground and sits on the edge of her bed, head in hands._ Inhale, exhale. Try to calm down._ She remembers the words that she said to her parents at the Reaping and once again asserts that she will not—cannot—let these Games change her into something she's not. And she's not a killer.

Cameron Ray knows that he should be trying to get rest, seeing that this is the night before the Games, but he can't help himself. His mentor somehow managed to get a hand on the recap of Cameron's father's Games, rather unceremoniously handing the tape to Cameron with a "Here. Watch up." And now he can't tear his eyes away from the screen and the 18-year-old boy from District Eleven. On day three of the Games, Christopher Ray and his allies from Three ran into the Career pack and were slaughtered. A classic Hunger Games death. _Like father, like son,_ Cameron thinks glumly, switching off the TV screen. He tries to pretend that he has a better chance than that, but he knows he's deluding himself. He climbs into bed and falls into a troubled sleep, dreaming about his family and his home.

…..

_Ten._

Chantelle Jacobsen sits on her bed, wide awake, and tries not to think about what or who she's got left back in District Ten. Instead, she turns her thoughts to the days ahead and all the rules people have been giving her. _Ally with your district partner. Do everything you can to win, but make sure the Capitol likes you. 24 go in and only one can come out, and there's lots of murder along the way._ Chantelle's lips twist into a bitter smirk. They can force her to play by the rules, but they can't make her put on a show for them.

Anderson Birk has always thought that nighttime was the loneliest and scariest time of the day. Not just because it's dark—he sees darkness all the time, that's nothing new—but because of the stillness. No one talks during the night. Everyone's settling down and going to sleep. Anderson has always relied on his hearing and nighttime is the only time that the sense fails him. Here in the Training Center on the night before the Games, there is complete and utter silence. Nothing for him to rely on except touch and his own thoughts. And at the time right before he falls asleep, when his mind and the sensation in his fingers are muted, it's like there's absolutely nothing. On this night, Anderson wonders if this is what death feels like.

…..

_Nine._

Jace Latone decides that since she cannot sleep, she might as well enjoy the view and leaves her bedroom in favor of the common room, with its wall-sized window looking over the Capitol. Her eyes survey the area and find that her district partner has apparently had the same thought. _Great._ She seats herself on the other end of the couch. For a while, there is nothing but silence—normally the kind of atmosphere that Jace would be most comfortable in—but a question slips out of her mouth without her realization. "Why do you speak out?" she asks. "Why do you draw attention to yourself by raging against the unfairness of this all? There's nothing we can do about it. You're just asking for trouble."

Noaa Carpenter takes in her words as he fingers the folded-up sheet of paper in his pocket. He's confused by her, this silent district partner of his, and yet he pities her. She obviously doesn't know how much more fulfilling it is, when you're going off to die, to be able to believe in something and stand up for what you believe in. Noaa has had his life cut short by the Capitol, but he's not going to let them steal his voice. A fragment of his forbidden poem floats to the surface of his mind: _Somebody force me to care... to help us survive being alive, being alive, being alive..._

…..

_Eight._

Sometime during the past few days, Parker Bates gave up on optimism. Why try to see only the bright side when the darkness is approaching? Sure, optimism had helped her to cope with the shock of the reaping, but that's over and done with now. She's going to the arena in a couple of hours, and in the arena optimism doesn't do you any good. So instead, Parker Bates decides that she is going to be a protector. She'll protect little Mary and do everything she can to save an innocent life, because Parker can't bear to think of anyone going into that arena without someone who cares by their side.

Yon Trizzle was told to go to sleep, so he's asleep. The part of his mind that isn't dreaming is running over the instructions he's been given for the Games. From Thera: _"C__ome back home."_ From his mentor: _"At the Cornucopia, grab the nearest thing to you then run away as fast as you can." _From the Head Gamemaker: _"As soon as you get into that arena, you kill as many people as you can, and then go away before they catch you so that you can kill more people the next day."_ From Liya the interviewer: _"I'm sure you'll do everything you can to win these Games, won't you, Yon?"_ All he has are these instructions, and he will follow them. He's a good boy, after all. He does what he's told.

…..

_Seven._

Bri Geers knows, deep inside of her, that her reasoning is faulty, that Emily Raine is innocent and doesn't deserve to be punished for her uncle's crime. Even if she justified it by saying that she's making Spark go through the same hell she did when she lost her father, it still wouldn't be right. Besides, Emily would most likely have died anyway, without Bri's help, so Spark would still have felt the pain. _So why do it, then? Why be Artemis or Nemesis, hunting down someone to exact revenge upon?_ Angrily, she brushes these doubts aside. Her days are numbered. She might as while do something worthwhile with them.

Che Botill has never laughed himself to sleep before, but he figures this is the last opportunity he'll get in a long, long time. Everyone on the floor who can hear him must think he's weak or insane—either way, hopeless in the Games. Maybe he is. But Che doesn't want to think things like that. Laughing , even if it's borderline hysteria, gives him hope, strength, warmth. He'd rather laugh than cry any day. And this is the last chance he'll have to feel something warm in a long, long time.

…..

_Six._

In Neetamarie Telva's nightmares, butterflies carry poison. People are suddenly transformed into monsters, and Mary has to play hide-and-seek with them or else she'll die. A voltage machine falls from the sky and she tries to warn her allies (her _friends_) to run, but they can't hear her. She tries to pull them out of the way, but she's too little and frankly too insignificant to make a difference. As she's screaming at them, they all get crushed by a giant piece of metal with a Capitol seal on it, and Mary wakes up terrified.

Eadem Ordinaria listens to the clock chime midnight in a daze somewhere in between waking and sleeping. He reflects on the days past and the days to come. He knows he's steadily growing unstable, his behavior erratic and dangerous not only to himself but to others. This doesn't frighten him as much as he thinks it would. What truly frightens him, though, is the idea of being normal. Not just because of his mother, but because in the Hunger Games, to be normal is to be dead and forgotten and those are two things that Eadem is terrifiedof being. Dead and forgotten. No, he'll be crazy and free instead.

…..

_Five._

Her father's voice echoes in Teagan Stratus's mind as she relives the most frightening day of her life. _"P__eople are coming for us. For your mother and me. They don't know about you and your older sister...they _can't _know about you. You need to get get away."_ Then come the screams and the gunshots and the tunnels and Teagan wants to wake up, she _needs_ to, but she's trapped in this hell for what seems like an eternity. The Capitol commentators say that the girl from Five's been running ever since she got picked for the Games. Teagan knows it's been far longer than that.

At night, Veras Valdez likes to let his mind rest. He knows, of course, that he won't be able to do this in the arena, since Careers and muttations tend to hunt at night. However, seeing as this is quite possibly his last opportunity to do so, he indulges himself and lets go of every single guard he's put up since the reaping and the beginning of the Games. His thoughts run free and wander into the until now forbidden territory of emotions, wishes, hopes, dreams, nightmares. And as Veras sleeps, he doesn't even realize that he's sobbing in terror.

…..

_Four._

Carreen Haggerty wakes with the sound of the clock at six in the morning. Immediately she struggles to gain alertness, knowing that she'll have to be mentally as well as physically awake as soon as possible in the arena. Her eyes rest on her bracelet of seashells, the one Cedric had given her after the reaping. "_I was going to give it to you on our six-month anniversary,"_ he had said. _"But that would happen during the games."_ For the first time, Carreen questions why she volunteered in the first place. _I'm barely even a Career, much less qualified to lead the pack! And now I might never see Cedric again... _She shakes her head firmly and walks over to the window to watch the sun rise.

Gabriel Maddox eases himself awake, at lest partially to delay the sudden revelation that _this is it, this is the day of the Games_ and the inevitable fear that comes with it. Most of the time, he's able to keep it under control, but in the morning, right when he wakes up, the nasty mix of shock and panic hits him like a ton of bricks. _They can't be allowed to see that,_ he reminds himself with a shiver. _The other tributes, the Careers, they can't know that I'm afraid. And Mom and Dad and Irene and Keefe and Creston and Wave and Mer... I won't let them see it either._ A mysterious little smile creeps onto his face. Gabriel Maddox was always good at pretending he was completely okay.

…..

_Three._

Thalia Trinket seals the large manila envelope her mentor had found for her and writes on the front in thick black pen with her neatest handwriting. _From the mind of Thalia Trinket, District Three_. She puts her district on there because she's proud of where she comes from and she wants the Capitol to know it. The inside of the envelope is stuffed to the brim with pages of equations, sketches, inventions, visions, dreams for a better Panem that runs on clockwork. This is her masterpiece, the legacy that she will leave behind. She isn't afraid of dying, not really. Ideas live forever, and she wants to be one of the ideas that lasts.

Link Anderson eats as much breakfast as he can manage. No use starving himself right before the Games. He's going to need lots of energy and his brain needs to be twice as sharp as it usually is if he wants to get out of the Cornucopia bloodbath alive. His mind is running a hundred miles a minute, going over last-minute calculations and possibilities that he'll need to be prepared for. The arena is waiting for him. He'll be in there in just a few precious hours. There's no time to be frightened.

…..

_Two._

Emerald Honeycomb allows herself a small, quiet smirk as the attendant injects the tracker into her arm. Now the Capitol will always know where she is in the arena. But they will never know what she's thinking, and that is her greatest weapon against them. They will know her location but not her plans, dreams, hopes, fears, joys. They will never be able to see behind her mask until she lets them see, and that gives her power, the power she's been craving for so long. _Let the Games begin, everyone,_ she thinks as she wipes the smirk off her face in favor of a foolish grin. _Let them begin for real._

Marius Sheer is sitting directly across from the boy from Twelve and can't help but stare at the boy. Kirby Knightly, death seeker. Marius tries but can't understand at all. Kirby's girlfriend died? Well, so did Armen, and Marius isn't asking for a spear to be driven through his chest. There's too much for him to live for. Marius is going to win these Games and live the life that Armen should have lived. Dying for someone who's already dead is just makes both deaths in vain. The boy from Twelve should know that. But then again, he wasn't raised as a Career.

…..

_One._

This is Emily Raine's last chance to see any sort of friendly face before the arena takes over her life, so she hugs her uncle tight and doesn't let go. Spark is whispering frantically in her ear, advice and secrets of survival that she is barely listening to. She doesn't want advice. She just wants to be happy, and right now everything in the world seems to be conspiring against her. She tries to fight off tears as her mentor lets go and the plexiglass tube slides down, cutting this unprepared girl off from the outside world. She presses her hand against the tube and whispers, _"I'm scared."_ Spark only closes his eyes and hangs his head in reply.

Luka Saroque grins, fists clenched not in anger but in anticipation. There's no way to go now but up. Up, up and away, up into the arena, up towards his destiny, whatever that might be. Up into a world where the rules of life are just as twisted as his mind, a world in which a psychopath like him will reign supreme. As the platform locks into place and he glances around the arena, his grin widens and he licks his lips. Now is the time he's been waiting for. Now it's his time to shine.

…..

"_Listen, Amata. These Games are incredibly important. You know that the reapings were rigged even more so than usual, but I need you to know why. So. I need you to make sure these tributes have been killed by the end of the games. More importantly, make them suffer. Die slowly, in agony. Use your creative brain to think up something even more horrible."_

"_That should be—pretty easy—to do."_

"_I thought so."_

"_Might—I ask—why?"_

"_Rebellion."_

President Aether Shadow knows full well that the Hunger Games are barbaric. They were created to be that way. She also knows that the continued existence of the Games is the fastest way to cause the districts to dissent. Katniss Everdeen and the Second Rebellion proved that. But she also knows that the rebellion can be quelled if the hearts of the people are shattered beyond repair, and that is exactly what she's planning to do.

Six special tributes, special in the sense that their deaths will be the most horrific the Games have ever seen. The six tributes closest to the heart of the coming rebellion. Their deaths will send the rebels a message, loud and clear: _the Capitol knows of your existence and the Capitol is not afraid. We are strong. We are powerful. The greatest kindness we can show to you is to kill you all quickly, because we are willing to do absolutely anything to keep things exactly the way we are. We've succeeded for 191 years. We'll continue to succeed for thousands more._

Aether Shadow smiles and knows that the odds will always be in her favor.

_Zero._


	39. Now the Nightmare's Real

**Author's Note: To Emily, Luka, Emerald, Marius, Thalia, Link, Carreen, Gabriel, Teagan, Veras, Mary, Eadem, Bri, Che, Parker, Yon, Jace, Noaa, Chantelle, Anderson, Caprice, Cameron, Riley, and Kirby,**

**By the end of this chapter, five of you will be dead. I'm sorry about that, I'm so, so sorry. But this is the story of the Hunger Games, and it cannot happen any other way.**

**Before I let you go off to your destinies, I just want to say that it has been an honor working with you, all of you. Thank you for sharing with me your thoughts, your lives, your dreams, your fears. Your stories will live on, I promise.**

**Goodbye, dear tributes, and good luck.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part X. The District Ten escort who tries and fails to act like a cowgirl, Delia Dee, isn't really named after anything, except for the fact that "Delia" and "Dee" have the same vowel sounds. Coincidentally, she shares a last name with the District Eleven escort. I just decided they're cousins.**

…..

_Amata le Fay, Head Gamemaker_

I glance down at the president's list again, her words still echoing in my head. Six tributes to be killed in the arena, given especially horrible deaths, because of the rebellion. Some of the names I could have predicted, others are a complete surprise. Well, if there's anything a Gamemaker can do, it's making sure the tributes die.

What were the odds of any of them surviving, anyways? Twenty-three to one, at best.

"_60... 59... 58... 57..."_

Fabian's voice rings out across the arena, cold and detached with a refined Capitol accent, counting down the seconds before the bloodbath begins. I shake my head and turn my attention to the giant screen at the front of the room that shows the live broadcast. Lysander and Helena, relatively new people, are in charge of the cinematography for this year; currently they're just going around the circle of tributes, flashing each of their close-ups in succession, nothing particularly noteworthy, as Mercutio and Liya provide commentary and statistic for those who are betting.

"Do an aerial view—of the—arena," I suggest. They do, and I am rewarded with the commentators' oohs and aahs about my design. From the sky, all you can see are the tops of trees, forming neat half-spheres with the spread of their leaves, all in full bloom. Mercutio starts up about how he hasn't seen a forest arena in a while and how I'm bringing trees back in style. I crack a smile and exchange a glance with Fabian. They haven't seen _anything_ yet.

Lysander presses a button and the camera dives down, crashing through the canopy and making its way through the arena towards the center and the Cornucopia. The lighting is dim and slightly green, since the sun's shining through the leaves, giving the whole place an eerie air. Revir switches the soundtrack to an ethereal vocal song to match the mood. I grin and nod my approval.

"_32... 31... 30... 29..."_

The crowd outside our building is getting restless to see the tributes again, so Helena brings the camera into the center of the tribute circle, a clearing where there is full light, almost blinding when it shines off of the golden Cornucopia. They go back to showing the tributes' close-ups again, and I walk over to the holographic map in the center of the room. Idina, Claret, and Pericles have already gathered there; as their jobs aren't needed this early in the game, they're free to watch the bloodbath as any other Capitol citizen would, cheering on their favorites and relishing the sound of the cannons. Except not really. Once you become a Gamemaker, you never stop looking at things from a Gamemaker point of view. The arena is your whole world, and the whole world is an arena. I wonder how retired Heads manage to handle it, not being a part of the action. Not being able to control things.

I finger the list in my pocket again and try to dismiss the thought.

"_18... 17... 16... 15..."_

Idina designed the Cornucopia setup for this year, and I can tell by the smug look on her face that she knows everybody's impressed. In a reversal of the setups of previous years, all the weapons are scattered far across the clearing while the survival equipment is piled up in the mouth of the golden horn. Hopefully, this will lead to more bloodshed overall, as non-Careers will be armed but will have to fight their way to the center in order to get the basic supplies. The weapons are all buried halfway into the ground, though, so no tribute can get their hands on one _too_ easily.

The bloodbath death count has been unusually low the past couple of years. Four years ago there had been no deaths at all. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that.

"_10... 9... 8... 7..."_

Everyone in the Capitol has started counting down along with Fabian. I glance out the window, taking in their eager, almost ecstatic faces. As long as the Games last, I am in charge of everything they see on their TV screens, and therefore everything they think about.

I will not—_cannot—_disappoint them.

"_5... 4... 3... 2... 1... 0."_

Each screen in the Gamemaking room splits into four sections as the cameras prepare to capture every battle from every angle. The tributes have had days to work out their strategies, but now is the time when the Games actually begin, and nearly everyone hesitates. Then comes a sudden burst of movement.

One thing Idina's Cornucopia plan has already succeeded in is leveling the playing ground, at least for a little while. Instead of dashing to the horn immediately, the Careers have to stop to grab weapons from the edge of the ring first, giving the other tributes an opportunity to attack them while they're unarmed—and the Careers also have to abandon their traditional method of fighting from the center of the circle. More dangerous for everyone involved.

My perception of time slows as I watch each battle, each movement of the tributes, my fist clenched and my breath held.

Luka Saroque is the first to dart out, quickly followed by Marius Sheer, Bri Geers, and Caprice Alexander. Marius tugs a spear out of the ground seemingly without any effort, glances around, and begins making his way around the circle with his back to the Cornucopia. Caprice concentrates solely on making it to the horn, leaping over the tops of weapons in her path. She's in an advantageous position, starting right across from the mouth of the Cornucopia and away from the paths of the more dangerous Careers. Luka and Bri are coming from opposite sides of the circle. The girl kneels down and pulls at a bow and quiver in the ground as Luka slides out some fighting knives and whirls around to face Emerald, who's grinning widely as she tugs a set of throwing knives out of the ground. They make their way toward the center, back to back.

By this point, most of the other tributes have begun to move. Teagan Status turns and sprints, trying to find the shortest path out of the clearing and into the forest. Emily Raine, Carreen Haggerty, and Gabriel Maddox all find weapons—a bow, some knives, and a sword, respectively—and make a dash for their allies. Emily spots Teagan running and shoots an arrow, but she's off by a few inches and her arrow flies into a tree. Teagan quickly pries the thing out of the bark and disappears into the forest.

Meanwhile, Marius has worked his way to the side of the Cornucopia and spots Kirby Knightly moving toward the horn. The Two boy strides forward and thrusts his spear into the boy's chest, almost right in his heart. The body falls; first death of the Games, maybe fifty seconds in.

Caprice manages to grab a medium-sized backpack from the Cornucopia, ducking as Emerald throws a knife in her direction. She locks eyes with Jace Latone, who is taking fighting knives from the edge of the circle near her district partner Noaa Carpenter. The two girls exchange a brief nod and then Jace glances toward Bri, who also receives the message. Caprice runs off into the area of trees behind the horn.

Bri frees her bow and turns to kick Eadem Ordinaria, who has gotten too close for comfort, out of the way. He stumbles back; she loads her bow and lets an arrow fly into his arm. He pulls it out as he runs off to the forest, taking the bloody spear out of Kirby's body as he goes.

Cameron Ray has circled around the side of the Cornucopia and grips a pack of hiking gear before being forced to pull back as Gabriel draws his sword and wounds Cameron's shoulder. Startled, the boy stumbles as he runs away and trips on the hilt of a spear, clutching his arm wound and trying to gather the strength to get up.

Parker Bates and Che Botill each grab the weapons nearest to their plates. Che heads for the Cornucopia and Parker begins to run across the clearing, eyes trained on Mary Telva, who is very hesitantly trying to pull a knife from the ground. Her path is blocked by Chantelle, who has a small backpack from the Cornucopia and two fighting knives that she picked up along the way. In the few moments it takes for the girls to realize what is happening and size each other up, Luka and Emerald have reached Mary in a few quick strides. They draw their knives as Mary struggles to get her out of the ground, and Luka says the first words of the Games: _"Take your time, sweetheart. You've got the rest of your life."_

The sounds of tributes fighting is quiet enough for the girl's allies to hear the Career's taunt. Parker looks up and runs toward Mary with a scream, but even as Chantelle moves out of the way she's too far away to do much good. Che turns and throws his boomerang at the pair of Careers. It bounces off of Emerald's arm, dislocating her shoulder, but Luka's the one doing the killing and he's already dug his knife into the girl's throat. She falls, blood dripping from her neck; death two, one minute forty-four seconds in.

While Luka and Emerald are occupied with killing Mary, Thalia Trinket sneaks around the side of the Cornucopia and snatches up a medium-sized backpack. She throws it to her district partner, Link, who is busy digging up a pair of twin katanas nearby. We put them in the arena especially for him.

Yon Trizzle yanks a handaxe out of the ground and begins fighting with Riley Rynne, who has a sword. Both of them have frighteningly blank looks in their eyes.

Chantelle has reached her district partner's plate, where Anderson has been standing there patiently, ignored by the rest of the tributes. She grabs his arm with her free hand and they run as fast as they can into the forest. Bri and Jace meet up near the center and run off in the direction where Caprice fled.

Veras Valdez, armed with a knife, runs into Cameron as he is making his way to the edge of the circle. He tries to grab Cameron's hiking pack, but the boy keeps his grip on it and pulls a knife from the ground. Veras in turn pulls harder on the pack and the two struggle for it for about five seconds before an arrow from Emily comes flying in their direction. Veras ducks and it grazes Cameron's forehead; as the boy assesses his wound Veras disarms his and slits his throat, taking the pack and heading for the trees. Death three, two minutes three seconds in.

I glance in Idina's direction. She's not looking at the screen but rather has a stopwatch in her hands. I know what she's thinking: at the rate they're going, this might be among the fastest bloodbaths ever. Everything's happening at once. Probably the Capitol audience can't even tell what's going on. But every second feels like five to me, and with the split screens I can see the expressions of pain on all the tributes' faces.

Link Anderson has finished digging up his katanas, and he and Thalia head off toward the forest. Carreen begins to chase them, pulling a spear out of the ground as she does so, and she almost manages to catch the boy, who is slower than his partner due to his prosthetic leg. But Link scrapes the Career's side with his katana, leaving her in enough pain to give him time to escape.

Carreen whirls around and pulls a spear out of the ground, making her way toward Noaa, who is sprinting into the trees with some throwing knives. Yon also detaches from his battle with Riley and heads after Noaa. _An easier kill,_ I think almost glumly. Even though the others hate me for it, I don't regret what I said to him during his private training session. He needed directions, so I gave him some. All I told him was _kill and don't get killed—_practically the unspoken rules of the arena.

The camera follows Noaa as he runs through the forest, frantically checking behind his shoulder. He's pulling farther and farther away from Carreen, who is slowed down by her wound from Link's katana. The screen splits in half, one side showing the chase, the other side focusing on the Cornucopia clearing where Riley is heading toward the Careers with her sword in hand. One Twelve tribute against five Careers—that isn't going to work out in her favor, no matter how good at swordplay she is. Is the girl suicidal or just overconfident? Luka is smirking, as if he's amused by the idea; the rest of the Careers just look exasperated as they ready their weapons.

Carreen stops chasing Noaa, clutching her side as she prepares to turn around and join her allies at the Cornucopia. Noaa, glancing behind, notices that she's stopped and slows down his pace, thinking he's safe, when Yon comes crashing through the trees, blocking the Nine boy's path and bringing his axe down into Noaa's head.

Death four. Three minutes nine seconds.

Careen catches sight of Yon and lifts her spear in case he decides to go after her, but the boy just takes Noaa's knives and disappears into the trees just as quickly as he had arrived. Carreen takes in a breath and then heads back to the clearing.

Meanwhile, Riley has been fighting against Gabriel, deflecting knives and arrows coming from Emerald and Emily. Luka's been holding back one this one, probably watching to see if Gabriel could actually kill the girl—from what I've overheard during training, the Four boy's place in the alliance is being debated since he isn't actually a Career. Marius is also electing not to fight, instead going around the Cornucopia and picking up whatever weapons are left. He finds only a large battleaxe. The boy walks back over to his allies and says, "I'm going to go find Carreen."

The battlefield is eerily quiet, almost silent except for the clashing of two swords and Marius's comment. The other Careers nod their approval and Marius heads off in the direction Carreen went.

After another minute or so of battle, Gabriel manages to make a deep wound in Riley's hand, causing her to drop her sword. Gabriel kicks it out of her reach and presses the tip of his sword lightly into the girl's chest.

"Should have quit while you were ahead," Luka comments idly.

Gabriel turns to look at the rest of the alliance. "Whose kill?"

"You don't want it?" Luka asks.

"Not if someone else does." Gabriel stares straight into Luka's eyes, his expression cool and calm, turning what would normally be taken as an admission of cowardice into a forceful statement.

Riley closes her glassy eyes. She's already thought about possible escape routes and realized that there is no other way. Emily takes a step back, lowering her bow and shaking her head. Luka makes a "no, thanks" gesture, much to my surprise. Emerald steps forward, though, and says in an almost playful voice, "I could use a little target practice!"

Gabriel lowers his sword and steps aside. Riley is still standing there. Emerald narrows her eyes. "Well, go on, Twelve. Start running." Her tone is much nastier than it was a few seconds ago.

"Don't want to make this look like a public execution," Luka mutters, glancing to the side with a smirk.

A second passes, and then Riley begins to run for the trees. A hopeful expression spreads across her face—_maybe she can outrun the Careers and live another day—_but soon Emerald has a knife flying into her back. Riley falls to her knees. Emerald sends three more knives into the girl's neck, head, and heart, and the body slumps over. Death five. Five minutes fifty-two seconds.

Carreen and Marius emerge from the trees and the Careers begin sorting their supplies. I turn to Idina and Claret. "Is—that—it, then?"

"Six minutes," Claret says with a smile that contains no joy.

"Five tributes dead in six frickin' minutes!" Idina slams her stopwatch onto the table. It's hard to tell whether she's excited or angry.

Fabian starts firing the cannons. I turn away from the screen and look at the tribute list again. Two of the circled names are dead already, without any intervention on our part. But there are still four left, and fourteen others to kill in the days to come.

"Come—on—guys," I say to the rest of the Gamemaking team. "We've got—work—to do."


	40. And Miles to Go Before I Go to Sleep

**Author's Note: All right, so here's how these Games chapters are going to work, at least for a little while. There will be a rotating POV. Each chapter will have sections from the POV of a member of each of the alliances, plus one of the four lone players (Tegan, Veras, Eadem, and Yon). Sound good? Okay, then!**

**Also—by the way—does anybody have any specific actors in mind that they think of when picturing the characters? I'm trying to make some cool banners for the story and would appreciate your input...**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part XI. Brubeck Dee, the slightly depressed, overly serious District Eleven escort, is named after Dave Brubeck the jazz artist. He also shares a last name with the District Ten escort—see the previous chapter for more on that.**

…..

_Emily Raine, District One_

"What the _hell_ was that, people?"

Carreen and Gabriel roll their eyes as Emerald and I continue to sort the supplies and Luka goes on his latest rant about how pathetic the bloodbath kill count was.

"Five tributes! _Five!_ And two of them weren't even ours!"

"Give it a rest," says Carreen. Luka just raises his eyebrow and continues. I get the sense that he's mostly doing it to annoy us all.

"And how many were _yours_, O Fearless Leader? Oh, that's right—none! Is anyone else questioning who should be in charge of this group?"

"No," Gabriel mutters under his breath. A small giggle escapes my lips and soon five very scary armed tributes are staring at me. "Er..."

Even though I'm supposed to be a Career, I'm glad that the bloodbath was small. Just the look on that little Six girl's face when Luka slit her throat, or the girl from Twelve when Emerald told her to run... they send shivers up my spine. I don't know I'm going to manage hunting down tributes in the night with the other Careers...

I want to go home.

But to do that, I'd have to win the Games. And I'm not sure that's possible, even if Uncle Spark and Aunt Fidella did it years ago...

"How much have we got, Emily?" Carreen asks.

"Three large backpacks—each with a cord, two water bottles, iodine, an advanced medicine pack, and three boxes of crackers—plus six sleeping bags, two tents, two sets of hiking gear, and an extra sword," I say, checking over again just in case I missed something.

"Is that all the weapons?" Marius asks.

"Yep. The sword plus the weapons we have in our hands," says Emerald. "The other tributes must have gotten to them first. But we have the survival supplies."

"D'you think one of them'll try to raid our camp for food?" asks Gabriel.

"I'm pretty sure they'll be able to find _something_ in that forest," says Carreen. "But we'll keep a guard here just in case."

There's silence for a moment, then Emerald breaks it. "So when are we going _hunting_?" There's something girlish and eager in her voice even as she's talking about killing people. I feel sick already.

"We should wait until nightfall. That way the tributes will have settled down. They won't be running around the forest and they won't be on their guard," Carreen says with a nod. Luka actually seems to agree with her for once. Or at least he's not saying anything about it as he cleans his knives.

"I'll be the guard," I offer immediately. "When we go out hunting, I mean."

"Great," says Carreen. I get the feeling that nobody else wants to miss out on the hunt, but I'm relieved to be staying behind. It'll put off the shock of the Games, at least for a little while.

And hopefully I won't have to kill anyone in my probably short lifetime.

…..

_Link Anderson, District Three_

Five cannons. That means five of my competitors are gone. Which means my odds are increasing. I'd say I'm at roughly 49%—not that bad, as far as odds go.

I'm glad I was able to fend off and even outrun that Career. My prosthetic leg isn't as much of a liability as I had anticipated it being. And now I have katanas, which I'm sure the Gamemakers put in the arena espcially for me. Which means they like me, or at least are interested in me.

_51%,_ I think with a small smile.

"So, what have we got in the bag?" I ask Thalia. She opens up the medium-sized backpack and rummages through it, giving me a list of supplies: a water bottle, some iodine, a first aid kit, two boxes of crackers, and a length of cord. Her eyes light up at this last item, and I know she's thinking about building traps. There are an infinite number of possible ways she can put that cord to use. At least five of them involve strangling me in my sleep. While I don't think that's likely given Thalia's personality, I can't help but get nervous.

_49%_. Nerves are not an advantage, not in a fight.

We walk through the forest in silence for a couple of hours, me unsheathing and re-sheathing my katanas, Thalia fiddling with the cord and the snapped-off handle of her screwdriver district token, both of us watching out for other tributes. There don't seem to be any, though. They're probably in different parts of the forest, far away from the Cornucopia by now.

"Link!"

I look up to see that Thalia has run ahead of me, stopping at a large and flowing water fountain a couple of yards away. I catch up to her and we both stare into the fountain. I can scarcely believe my eyes—isn't the search for water supposed to be one of the harder parts of the Games? And here is a ready supply, crystal-clear and not showing any signs of running out.

"We'll need to purify it, of course," I say. "Just in case the Gamemakers laced it with something."

Thalia pulls out the water bottle and fills it with fountain water, putting a few drops of iodine in. After waiting a half-hour, we take turns drinking from it. I hadn't realized how thirsty I had been before. But now I feel refreshed, mind clear and ready to fight for my life.

…..

_Teagan Stratus, District Five_

All I have is a small backpack and one silver arrow that I've been using as a knife. I'm not very big and practically unarmed, so any tribute who wants to could attack and kill me now. I'm probably the easiest target in the Games at this point. But I survived the bloodbath, and that's not an easy thing to do. If I lay low, keep on my guard, and run like my life depends on it when someone's chasing me, I might just live a little longer. Maybe even long enough to be a contender in these Games.

I wonder if I'm on the broadcast now. About half an hour ago I found a water fountain and filled up my bottle—that's significant, finding a major water source. I try to imagine Kari and Uncle Denison watching me on the TV—what's going on in their heads? Kari's probably crying herself into hysterics, with Uncle Denison trying to calm her down. It's nice to know that Kari would have someone to turn to if I didn't make it home.

As I make my way deeper and deeper into the forest, I can't help but notice that the ground is soft, made up of finely-ground wood chips and decomposed tree leaves, and yet it's hard enough that you can't sink into it. When you walk, your footsteps make almost no noise whatsoever. It's the perfect terrain to sneak around on unnoticed. A bit too perfect, actually.

I squint my eyes and glance ahead, seeing the silhouette of a water fountain about fifty yards ahead. Have I been walking around in circles? No, I've been very careful about remembering how far I've traveled. So there are multiple water fountains in this forest?

Yes, this arena is a little too perfect on a little too many levels. The Gamemakers wouldn't do something like that unless they had a drastic twist prepared.

I take a sip from my water bottle and continue on my course, ignoring the second fountain for now. After ten or so minutes, I come across an area of the wood splattered with bloodstains but no body. The hovercraft must have already picked it up.

I notice a flicker of something white in my peripheral vision and whirl around, expecting to have to face another tribute. Instead there's just a piece of paper around where the most bloodstains are. Didn't the angry boy from Nine have a poem as his district token? It must have fallen out of his pocket when the hovercraft took him.

I pick it up and open it. The stanzas are scribbled out in no particular order and it's written in at least three different hands. The words aren't overly poetic, but they do have a musical quality to them. _"Someone to need you too much, someone to hurt you too deep, someone to sit in your chair, to ruin your-"_

Wait a minute. I know that song. And I know that handwriting, too.

Just as I'm starting to put the pieces together, I hear a low growl coming from in front of me. I look up and, despite myself, let out a gasp. The creature's body is hidden in the shadow of a tree, but I can see its eyes clearly. Its yellow, almost glowing eyes.

There's a muttation following me.

I don't have the time to think about the Nine boy's poem anymore. All I think about is running, getting out of there, making sure whatever monster was lurking in that shadow doesn't catch up with me.

…..

_Anderson Birk, District Ten_

"You saved my life back there. Thank you." Chantelle doesn't reply.

"I mean, it was only a matter of time before someone realized I was just standing there and decided to take me out," I continue. Still no reply.

"You know, I was starting to doubt whether or not our alliance still held. I know you don't like being stuck with me-"

"Shut up," Chantelle finally says. "I wasn't going to betray you. Not then."

There is another pause as I take in the implications of her words. "So, when _would_ you betray me?"

Again she doesn't answer. If she were planning on betraying me—and let's be honest, most people would—she wouldn't tell me she was going to. No one, including me and especially not Chantelle, is that stupid.

The silence lasts for about another hour, the whole of which I spend waiting to hear if Chantelle would hold her breath and then strike. She doesn't. "Is it getting darker out there?" I ask.

"Yeah," says Chantelle. "Judging from the sun, it's maybe five in the evening. We've been walking for a while. Do you want some water?"

I nod and hear the sound of Chantelle unzipping our small backpack and pulling out the one metal water bottle that we've been sharing. A couple hours ago Chantelle had spotted a fountain and filled up the water bottle to the brim. Since then, she's seen three other fountains and memorized their locations. It was hard to know whether or not she was lying to me, but the fact that there is actually water in the bottle is a reassuring sign.

I take a couple of sips from the bottle and then pass it to Chantelle, who immediately puts it back into the bag. I wonder why she didn't want water. Could she have laced it with some poisonous berry that she neglected to mention?

I wait a few seconds, then continue walking through the forest. I'm not dead yet, nor do I feel sick, which is also reassuring. Maybe Chantelle isn't planning on killing me at all. Maybe she's just waiting for the opportune moment to shove me into the path of the Careers.

I shiver a little. If I have to die, I'd rather have it be through my district partner's hands than the Careers'. Poison, especially one that kills you instantly, is a much kinder way to go than being taunted while you're sliced into bits by six sadists. But I'd definitely prefer not to die at all.

As we walk through the forest, I begin to mutter under my breath, the words that Tara had said to me while trying to describe the colors. _"Red is heat and fire, warm and passionate, but also bloody. Orange is a softer, kinder red. Yellow is brightness, and the sun, and happy, cheerful days. Green is the forest air, grass and leaves and the earth. Blue is the sky and the ocean, forever expanding, cool and calm. Purple is the royal color, of kings and high heroes, the color of plums and violet flowers, contemplative and intuitive." _

I repeat this over and over again even though I'm sure Chantelle is giving me strange looks. I try to tell myself that as long as I'm saying it, I'll stay alive. It's wishful thinking, I know, but it helps me get my mind off of troubling matters like betrayals and Careers and death. It gives me hope in a hopeless place, and that's really what I need in order to not go insane.

…..

_Jace Faith Latone, District Nine_

Caprice and I make a small fire at sunset using some snapped-off twigs and branches from the nearby trees. There's not much smoke, so probably the Careers won't take notice. Hopefully.

"I've got five fighting knives," I say. "How do you want to divide them up?"

"You and Caprice can each take two, and then I'll take the leftover one," Bri says. "I've got my bow." We all nod at that suggestion and I hand over the knives. I can't help but wonder if I'm arming tributes who are going to stab me in the back tonight. But the more I think about it, the less likely it seems to be.

In the backpack that Caprice got from the Cornucopia are, among other things, two boxes of crackers with twenty-four of them in each box. Caprice opens up a box and hands each of us two crackers. "Each cracker is pretty big, so two of them should sustain a person for a day," she says.

"That makes, what, eight days worth of crackers for all of us?" asks Bri.

"Yep," Caprice replies. I don't voice my thoughts, which are something along the lines of_ the alliance will probably be over by day eight, judging by how long allies typically stay together_.

"I could also do some hunting," Bri adds. "There's probably game around here, game I'm familiar with. It is a forest, after all."

Yeah. That's right. District Seven, lumber, trees. Bri's probably very comfortable in this arena.

We eat our crackers in near silence. None of us talks to anyone else. Nobody _wants_ to talk to anyone else. Caprice's eyes are darting around nervously, checking to see if there are any other tributes nearby. Since the ground is so soft, footsteps don't really make a sound, so we wouldn't be able to hear someone coming up behind us. I begin scanning the area as well.

Bri just looks preoccupied, staring at the fire in the center of the campsite with her hand gripping her bow so tightly that her knuckles are white. A low growling sound escapes her teeth. Both Caprice and I turn to look at her. I don't say anything, per my usual philosophy, but Caprice does.

"You look angry."

"I _am _angry," the Seven girl says, not taking her eyes off the fire.

"Why?"

Bri closes her eyes lightly. "Wouldn't expect you to understand."

I would have left the conversation at that, but Caprice just presses harder. "I'm listening. We're your allies—your _friends. _We can help."

There is a pause, then Bri says. "I'm thinking about the man who murdered my father and how I can get back at him by killing his niece in the arena." Her voice is quick and expressionless, and she only grips the bow tighter, refusing to look at either of us.

Silence reigns for about another minute. Then Caprice says, "You're only twelve years old. You shouldn't have to worry about that kind of thing." _Bitter, very much so._

"Twelve-year-olds—or sixteen-year-olds for that matter—shouldn't have to fight for their lives in death tournaments every year," Bri responds right after her, not missing a beat. Finally the girl looks up, and it strikes me just how young she is. Even though she got an eleven and acts very mature, she's not even a teenager. Just a kid. Which is just plain _wrong_, not that I'd admit it to anyone.

Somewhere to my left there comes the sound of a girl screaming and sobbing. Bri, Caprice, and I all look at one another and quietly start to pick up our supplies and leave the area.

…..

_Parker Bates, District Eight_

"I—I can't—I just can't _do_ this anymore, Che!"

The boy from Seven puts his hand on my shoulder, a sympathetic gesture with good intentions. "Calm down, Parker, you're fine, you're okay."

"I watched her _die_!" I scream. My sobs can probably be heard across the arena, but I'm beyond caring at this point. "I just _stood there_ and watched her _die_ right in front of me! _It's all my fault!_ It's all my fault an innocent twelve-year-old is _dead_!"

"Parker, listen to me," Che says, grabbing both my shoulders and stepping in front of me. "It wasn't your fault. It was the boy from District One. He's the one who killed her, but it's over now. She's gone and there's nothing we can do about it, but at least she's in a place where no one can hurt her."

"_I'll kill him!_" I scream. "I'll _kill_ that bloody, awful, heartless-"

"Parker-"

"Do you understand? _I AM GOING TO KILL HIM!_" I collapse onto the forest floor, curled up into a ball with my hands over my ears, as if that could somehow block out the pain and those horrifying memories. But I know they can't, just like I know that there's no way Mary's coming back and there's no way she died happy or anything other than afraid and there's no way out of this arena and there's no bright side to any of this, to anything at all, to life, to—to—

"I HATE THE CAPITOL!" I shout. Everything inside of me is collapsing and they're the ones to blame. For these inhumane mockeries of a tournament, the Hunger Games. For all the pain and fear and hollowness they've caused every tribute, every child and every parent in Panem for the last two hundred years. "I HATE YOU! I HATE WHAT YOU'VE DONE! AND I AM GOING TO KILL _EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU_ WHETHER OR NOT I MAKE IT OUT OF THIS ARENA!"

"Parker!" I don't look at Che, _can't_ bring myself to look at him, and so I don't know what he's trying to do, only that he's trying to stop me from saying what I feel.

"And I'll kill you too, Che." It barely comes out as a whisper, but it is an intense whisper nevertheless. My throat is burning and my head's been throbbing for hours. "I'll kill you, and District One, and all the tributes, and myself too, and they won't have a victor. Just like what Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark tried-"

"Parker, stop it right now."

"_No!_" I lunge at him with my knife, the knife that did nothing to save Mary. He grabs my arm and takes the weapon out of my hand, looking petrified and yet concerned at the same time. _He's a good person,_ I think. _He doesn't deserve to die. None of us do._

I collapse again, sobbing frantically at the unfairness of it all and the fact that there's nothing I can do to change it, no point in doing anything except play the game the way the Capitol wants to see it.


	41. If I Die Before I Wake

**Author's Note: Since school is getting out soon, I'll probably be updating more frequently. I'll try for once every two weeks—how does that sound?**

**Also, re: chapter title—because it seems like every other SYOT in the fandom is using it.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Escorts Got Their Names, Part XII. Jude Vesper, the very prim District Twelve escort, got her name because "jude" rhymes with "prude," which describes her personality, and because "Vesper" is the name of a family in the book series 39 Clues, which I was reading at the time. Next up: How the Mentors Won Their Games.**

…..

_Emerald Honeycomb, District Two_

Good thing about this arena: it's incredibly easy to sneak up on tributes while hunting. Bad thing about this arena: it's incredibly hard to _find_ the tributes.

We've been combing the woods for about two hours now and I'm tired as hell. We all are. Not a single tribute—seriously? There's not a lot of cover on the ground, so they're either all up in the trees or all in a different part of the arena. Just our luck—the Capitol audiences are probably laughing their heads off right now.

It's kind of eerie, I have to admit, what with the silent ground and the lack of conversation and the darkness that makes it nearly impossible to see. I have to keep glancing around and squinting to make sure that my allies are actually still there. It would be so easy to betray someone and get away with it in this environment. Luckily, Luka and I already have a plan.

For some reason, my mind keeps coming back to that Twelve girl I killed earlier today. I don't know why, but I just didn't feel _satisfied_ when I knifed her. It's not like I _pity_ her—she was stupid, unhinged, or both and definitely had it coming—but I still feel hollow inside. It just wasn't as fun as I thought it would be. My game is in tricking other people and pretending to be more innocent than I am, not in killing people right and left. That's not me, and it never will be.

But I _am_ a Career, and so I'll keep killing. Because no one can win this game just be hiding, in whatever form that may take. And I want to win. I _need_ to win.

"I think I saw some movement in the distance," says Carreen in a low voice.

I nod emphatically. "Let's catch us some tributes, then."

…..

_Thalia Trinket, District Three_

I volunteered to be on first watch, which Link agreed to warily. I'm supposed to wake him up at midnight, though I'm not quite sure how to tell the time in here. I estimate that it's been two hours since the anthem played—two hours for the Careers to be searching the woods for us.

I finger the cord I found in my backpack earlier, thinking about what kind of traps I could build with it. It's rather a strong and long cord, and this arena provides a number of different possibilities. The water fountains would be good bait. It would be hard to see a dangling string through the leaves of the trees. And you wouldn't even have to be there when it snapped—you could rig one to leave someone dangling instantly. Anyone could wander in and set it off. Even me. Even Link...

I'm so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost don't hear them coming until it's too late. Just a rustle of leaves as someone pushes aside a branch—that's the only warning I get. No footsteps, no nothing.

"Link!" I hiss, shaking him awake. "Link, someone's coming!" My district partner springs forward, wasting no time in gathering all our possessions and heading in the other direction. His prosthetic leg is surprisingly mobile, and it's a good thing, too, because within a second we're running for our lives, trying not to make a sound, not to tip them off as to where we're headed. We run until we're both out of breath, then stop for water and start running again. The forest looks all the same and I begin to wonder if we've just been running in circles. But it doesn't matter, because whoever was chasing us is long gone.

"I think we're safe," I whisper, and can't help but laugh a little. We're both still alive!

I can't see his face, but Link sounds solemn as he says, "I'll take watch now. You go to sleep."

And, after a moment of distrusting hesitation, I do.

…..

_Veras Valdez, District Five_

It's good that I don't have any allies, because it's hard enough to take care of myself stumbling around in the darkness as it is; adding other people would be a recipe for disaster. I do have a flashlight in my pack, but to use it would be madness—if the Careers were here, they'd be able to pinpoint my exact location.

_You need to stop now,_ I tell myself. _Stop and rest. You're far enough from the others now that they won't be able to find you._

I lean back against one of the many trees in this arena and think about where I'm headed next. There's one thing that's been troubling me—okay, more than one thing. The first is the bloodbath earlier. I killed that boy from Eleven in cold blood. I know, I promised myself that I wouldn't get emotional about it, but only a psychopath wouldn't have _some_ kind of response, and becoming mentally unstable is one of the last things I need in this arena.

As soon as I've managed to convince myself of that, the perfect justification slips into my head: _It was in self-defense. He was going to kill you if you didn't kill him._ It's not completely satisfying—I have no proof that he was actually capable of killing me—but it's enough to balance out at least some of my guilt.

Which brings me to the second troubling thing: the hiking pack I took from the Cornucopia is clearly designed for traversing rocky terrain, which this forest floor is very clearly not. Three possibilities emerge: one, that there's another, more mountainous section of this arena that I haven't found yet; two, that the Gamemakers are planning a sudden and probably abrupt shift in the arena environment; and three, that the Gamemakers are being sadistic by giving us tools that are useless. Number one seems the most likely, but I believe I've heard of Gamemakers switching up the arena in some of the earlier Games. And as for number three... well, I'll come to that conclusion if none of my other guesses are proved right.

_Sleep. You need sleep,_ insists the part of my brain more concerned about short-term matters. I stand up and feel for the branches of the tree above me. Fortunately, the Gamemakers have made it easily climbable, and the branch that I strap myself to is high enough that the leaves of the tree conceal my presence. And finally, after I've made all the necessary precautions, I'm ready to fall asleep.

…..

_Caprice Alexander, District Eleven_

I'm awakened by Jace tapping me on the shoulder, turning over the position of watch to me. I probably got only four, maybe five hours of sleep, but I have a feeling that's going to be the usual in this arena. "The Careers are probably back at camp by this hour," I mutter in a low voice. Jace nods but says nothing as she settles down next to Bri.

She does that a lot. Saying nothing, I mean. I've probably only heard her speak a few sentences in the last week. Aside from the interview, of course, which really didn't tell me anything about her. It's not like I'm supposed to know my allies inside and out, but at least I know Bri's got her eyes on revenge or something like that. I have no idea what's going on in Jace's head.

And they both know more about me than I ever intended to let on—that I'm planning on not killing while I'm in this arena. That's a major advantage for them, an advantage I'm not sure I'm comfortable with them having, especially the enigmatic Jace. Is she just shy? Or could she be plotting to stab me in the back? Could _both _of them?

For a moment I'm wild with panic and even paranoia. My knife is out before I can even think and it's a good thing I catch myself then, because I'm only a few feet away from my sleeping allies and I know exactly what would have happened if my craze had continued for just a few minutes longer. I would have become a murderer.

In anger, I fling my knife towards one of the trees. It buries itself into the bark, even though it's not meant for throwing. I'm good with a knife. And that scares me.

My breath is ragged by this point and I feel like I'm on the verge of another craze because I'm getting this urge to run as far as I can and leap off the nearest cliff of this arena. I clench my fists. _You_ need_ to stay in control. Be rational._

I think back to that short conversation I had with the Avox woman, the woman who had looked so much like my ally. Are they related? It would certainly seem so, given the Avox's reaction to seeing her picture. That's why Jace is so quiet—she doesn't want her tongue cut out. Nothing less, nothing more. And Bri's only twelve years old and though she's good with a bow, she doesn't want my blood—she wants the girl from District One's. Not mine.

I'm safe. Safe and sound. Or rather, as safe as it gets in the Hunger Games.

…..

_Che Botill, District Seven_

It would be so easy to just leave her here, right now. I wouldn't even have to prepare or anything, just walk away. She wouldn't be able to hear my footsteps and wake up to stop me, since footsteps seem to be almost silent on this ground. Nobody in Panem would blame me for it, not after her outburst a couple of hours ago.

It was a miracle that she even got to sleep in the first place. She was screaming so loudly, I thought for sure that the Careers would hear and come looking for us. But they didn't, and as soon as she saw Mary's face in the sky, she was pretty much shocked into silence, and eventually, into sleep.

I can't pretend I'm not rattled by it all, the bloodbath and Mary's death and this arena and Parker almost trying to kill me and the whole horror of _this is it, we're actually in the Games and it's hell_. But I certainly look calm next to Parker, though I suppose _anyone_ would look calm next to Parker.

Yes, it would be so easy just to leave her here. It probably wouldn't even be that hard to make sure she never opened her eyes again. I'm sure some of the other tributes would do it.

But I don't. I _can't_. Not after all we've been through. Despite what's happened in the last couple of hours, whenever I close my eyes I still picture that friendly girl on the first day of training, the girl who suggested we be allies at the same time I did, the girl who laughed at all my bad jokes, them girl who refused to leave little Mary on her own. The girl who loves animals and dancing and finding the best in everything. The courageous girl who, when push came to shove, would always shove back hard. The girl whose father is a science teacher back in Eight and who has an eight-year-old sister named Mouse she'd do anything for. The girl with beautiful blond hair and freckles and a smile that melts your heart...

I couldn't leave her and most _certainly_ couldn't kill her, so I sit and wait and wish upon the stars in the arena sky that she could become that girl again, if only for a moment.

…..

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

I don't know why I didn't abandon him at the bloodbath. It certainly would have been a good move, and no one could blame me for it. And that way, I wouldn't have to get attached to the stupid kid and therefore wouldn't have had any hesitations about what I'm about to do now.

Of course, if I'd abandoned Anderson Birk at the bloodbath, I wouldn't _have_ to do what I'm about to do now. It would already have been done.

I delicately finger one of the knives in my belt as I watch his sleeping form, and all the resistance I'd built up in my head over the past week crumbles. I can't kill him. What am I thinking? He's my district partner and my ally and my _friend_. He's the only one who knows exactly how I feel about this whole Hunger Games thing—I've put on a mask for everyone except him. I helped him onto the train. I helped him out of the Cornucopia bloodbath. I can't kill him now.

But if I don't, then somebody else will, and I'll probably end up dead, too. Besides, I doubt he'd want to go by the hands of a Career, being taunted in his last moments. This is much more peaceful. He probably won't even feel a thing. That's as peaceful as it gets in the Games.

And yet... and yet I still can't bring myself to it.

The Capitol is probably eating this up, playing tense music as I hesitate to sort through my emotions. I begin to feel sick in my stomach. They're all watching me, right now, betting on what I'm going to do, exchanging money for my life, for Anderson's life... the same people that shot Gramps.

_You can force me to play by the rules, but you can't make me put on a show._

The knife twists its way out without me even thinking about it. I grab a fistful of Anderson's hair and pull up his head to expose his neck. He's still asleep, still breathing heavily. I bring my knife to his throat and hesitate for one more time. Hopefully for the last time.

A cannon fires, the sound ringing across the arena. I gather my supplies and walk away, refusing to look behind and give them what they want.


	42. Tremors and Cracks

**Author's Note: Chapter number 42: The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. Well, not really.**

**Chantelle has now been added to the rotating "loner" list, so we won't be getting her POV for another couple of chapters. **

**Special recognition goes to Maysilee Survived for catching the _Quell_ (my story about the 25th Games) reference last chapter even though I didn't point out that there was one in the first place!**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part I. Ivan Chekhov, Luka's mentor, won the 175th Games by using a cannon built into the Cornucopia to take out his fellow Careers at the Feast. This cannon's existence had been discovered during the bloodbath, but there had been an unspoken agreement among the tributes not to use it and thus it had been all but forgotten until Ivan decided to cash in on the fact that the rule was unofficial.**

…..

_Parker Bates, District Eight_

I wake to the sound of a cannon firing. Instinctively, I look around me. No one's here except Che, who's looking around just as confusedly as I am.

It wasn't us, then. It wasn't anyone near us. Some unlucky tribute on the other side of the arena just died. I wonder if they were a victim of the Careers or of a betrayal or of a mutt or of some other deadly feature of the arena. Were they poisoned or stabbed or shot or torn apart or strangled or garroted or worse? Did anyone watch? Did anyone have to watch them die? Did they try to save them? Did they say something to them before they died? Or did they enjoy it? Did they laugh? Was the last thing that poor tribute heard a cold taunt of a Career or a district partner, an ally, a friend? Were they asleep or wide awake in fear?

I can't stop my thoughts from racing down this morbid track even though I desperately don't want to think of it, of death, of Mary's death, of _my_ death and my heart and my brain just can't keep up and I know I'm going insane because my soul can't help but _breakbreakbreak-_

"Parker?" It's Che. He's coming over. Helping me up. Walking me to water. Helping me drink. Is the water poisoned? I spit it out.

"No, Parker," he says. "You have to drink." He's right. I'll get dehydrated. But we don't have anything to fix the water and make it pure and safe to drink, and what if it is poison? What if it is a trap? _Che, don't drink it!_ I say, but he can't hear me and he drinks anyway. I grab his arm and pull him away.

"Parker, please, you need water. It's fine. It's clean. Come over here." He leads me over. Talks to me some more. Soothingly, quiet. Like I'm a child. A child that needs patronizing. I'm not a child.

I have a sister who's a child and her name is Mouse—_Mary—_and she's in District Eight—_District Six, dead at the bloodbath—_and she's safe—_dead, dead at the bloodbath, killed by One—_and I have to get home to her—_I have to die in these Games, because there's no way out—_

No way out. But I'll find a way out. I need to get back to District Eight. Where is District Eight? Somewhere here. Somewhere near. Somewhere...

"Parker!" I hear Che call. Calling me back to the arena. But no, I run through the forest because I'm going home and nothing can stop me, I can run home through this forest—

And then I fall to the ground. Che finds me. He looks scared as he leads me back to our camp by the fountain. He's scared, and he should be. Because the Gamemakers want to keep us from going home. They want to keep us in this forest and they have tricks to do it and that's what's happening now.

I fell because the ground started shaking.

…..

_Bri Geers, District Seven_

"What the hell-"

Before I can finish my sentence, the ground rumbles again. They're only slight tremors, but they're enough to knock you to the ground if you were moving. The squirrel I was tracking has scampered away, leaving me with no meat after an hour of hunting. Game seems to be ridiculously hard to find in this arena, and now the Gamemakers have blown away my chance of actually catching something. Damn.

I head back to my allies' camp, walking somewhat warily in case another earthquake strikes and keeping my eyes out for more squirrels. I see a few, but they're moving so fast I can barely get my bow loaded before they're gone. Sighing, I continue on. After a few more minutes, I think I hear a girl sobbing somewhere in the distance, but I don't follow the sound. If I don't get involved with her, then she won't get a chance to kill me. I'm not about to go picking fights with innocent tributes. Well, except for Emily Raine.

I think back to the conversation Caprice and I had yesterday evening. This whole thing is so wrong, so _sick_. I shouldn't be devoting the rest of my life to slaughter. I shouldn't be out to get a girl who never even knew my father, never mind murdering him. He shouldn't even have been murdered in the first place. And I shouldn't be forced to pay for it with my life in these ghastly Games for the Capitol's amusement.

Hell, _Panem_ is a sick place. Nothing is as it should be. But I have to make do with what I have.

The earth rumbles again. I lose my balance, but grab onto the low limb of a tree to keep myself standing. I'm jerked out of my thoughts, reminded that I should be paying attention to the here and now, because if I don't then I might die a lot sooner than if I do.

With that in mind, I grab some edible berries from a low bush around a nearby fountain so the alliance will have _something_ to eat besides crackers and make my way back to camp.

"Did you feel that?" Caprice asks.

I nod. "The whole arena probably felt it. Typical Gamemakers."

"This forest was just too good to be true," Jace mutters.

"Yeah. And I couldn't find much in the way of food besides some berries." I hand them to Caprice, who puts them in the bag. "There were a few squirrels, but they were too quick to catch without proper traps. Do we have ropes?"

"Some cords, yeah."

"I can probably rig something up," I say. And I can. Back in Seven, I was the trap-setter when A.J. and I went out hunting. But for some reason, this makes me pause. Even though I'm more than capable of taking care of myself in the Games, I still feel like I'm missing something. I don't have A.J. to watch my back or to trade stories with. Caprice and Jace are nice, but they haven't known me all my life and they're certainly not going to put my safety over their own. They're _allies_, not partners. And what I need more than anything right now is a _partner_.

More reminders of home. More of a reason to get back there.

…_.._

_Yon Trizzle, District Eight_

The ground is shaking. It has been, on and off, for the past couple hours. I was panicked at first, but then I calmed down when I realized it wasn't going to hurt me. It's just a little shaking. Nothing's wrong with that.

I've been hiding out in the forest, keeping to myself and listening for cannons. There have been six so far. Six people gone. Twenty-four minus six is eighteen. I am one of eighteen people left in these Games.

I've followed all my instructions so far, so I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do. I haven't come across any more tributes I have to kill, so I'm just waiting. Waiting here by the fountain, waiting for them to come.

I don't mind waiting. It gives you time to breathe, time where you don't have to be acting on orders, just drifting. But you're not drifting without a purpose, because you _do_ have orders, and it's just everything's not set for you to follow them yet. Waiting's a time where you don't have to _be _anything. There's been a lot of waiting in the time before these Games. There's probably going to be a lot more in this arena.

Another earthquake comes. It's stronger than the others, knocking me down even though I've been standing still. And it goes on longer, too, almost a full minute. I hear a cracking sound and then it goes away, just like that.

I look around for what could have made the noise and see that the fountain near me has a crack in it, near the bottom. It's not a big crack and nothing's leaking out of it. I wonder if anyone else heard it and if they'll be coming to investigate so I can kill them. They don't, and I don't.

I come out of my spot and get some water from the fountain, because my mentor said I should stay hydrated. If I don't have enough water, he said, I could get sick and die. And then I wouldn't be able to come home, and I promised Thera I would. I'm going to fulfill that promise.

And if somehow I don't... If somehow, I don't get to fill out my orders like I should...

For a moment, I don't know what to do and I think I'm going to cry. But my mentor said I shouldn't do that, so I push the thoughts away. Simple as that. I just won't think about it.

I drink my water and then move back into the shadows to wait some more.

…_.._

_Link Anderson, District Three_

Thalia and I set out this morning to build some traps. The earthquakes complicated that some. Well, actually, they complicated it a lot.

Complication number one: we don't know when they're coming so they throw us off balance. Thalia was up in a tree when the first one hit, and she's lucky she was low enough that the fall didn't break any of her bones. We both were more careful after that, which ended up with Thalia hesitating every time before she scaled any of the trees, which decreases both our speed and the number of traps we're going to be able to set before the day is out. That might end up costing our lives—you never know in the Hunger Games.

Complication number two: The earthquakes cause the branches and leaves of the trees to shake, messing up our camouflage work and sometimes even critical parts of the traps. We keep having to go back and fix them—decreasing our speed even more.

Less speed. More time away from the camp. More of an opportunity for other tributes like the Careers to find us. More worries for me. Decreased odds of survival, even if the traps may eliminate some of our competitors.

At least we're always on the move. That's better than staying still—there's little cover on the ground, and I can't exactly climb a tree in my condition. Which really isn't fair—given the "fight or flight" response, logically my only choice is to fight. I can't run. I can't climb to safety. All I have are my katanas and my wits—valuable weapons, of course, but perhaps not enough. My options are limited, and that gives me even more of a disadvantage in these Games than I already have.

_47%,_ I think. _Even with the decreased numbers of competitors. Maybe even 46%, or 45%, or 44%—_

_No. You don't have time to be nervous now. You have to be alert, no matter what. Another quake could knock you down._

Which leads me to complication number three: my prosthetic leg and earthquakes do not mix. I have more balance issues than the average person, and when I get knocked down, it's hard for me to get up quickly. I had been counting on my agility and skill in swordplay to remedy that issue—I simply wouldn't allow myself to fall. But the earthquakes don't exactly give me a choice, do they?

All it would take is an earthquake, the lightest of tremors. If Thalia were somehow gone, unable or unwilling to help me, I'd have to struggle to get up. Then one of the Careers with their arrows or throwing knives could spot me and then it would all be over...

_41%, 40%, 39%... odds dropping, numbers falling, a flick of a Gamemaker's switch and then... then I'd be gone._

I shake my head as if to shake away the possibility. That's not going to happen. And if it is, I'll think of something and make it through. I always do.

Odds are just numbers, and numbers don't necessarily make a reality.

…_.._

_Eadem Ordinaria, District Six_

These quakes may scare some of the other tributes, but not me. We have plenty of earthquakes in District Six, and bigger ones than these at that. I know how to prepare, and I'm strong. I'm ruthless. I'm unafraid. I'm _abnormal_, and I have only one goal: make it out of these Games alive, no matter what.

I sip from the water fountain and head to the west. I've noticed that the bases of some of the fountains are cracked, and if the earthquakes continue, then the fountains may end up destroyed. I'll have to collect as much water as I can before that happens, but all I have is a spear. I'll have to get a water bottle from another tribute. Preferably a dead one, or at least one that's dead after I'm through with them.

So I'm off to find a water bottle. There are plenty of footprints in this soil—it's soil made for a hunter, perfect for tracking and sneaking up silently—and several tributes are stupid or scatterbrained enough not to cover their tracks. I've been following some footprints for a while now—two allied tributes wandering across this part of the arena. One of them makes odd scuffling marks with long patches of well-concealed trail—the lame but high-scoring boy from Three, perhaps?—and the other doesn't even bother to cover up their deep, fresh footprints. They've been visiting fountains, so it makes sense that they'd have the bottle I need.

I rather like tracking. It's quite fun.

I crouch down to gather some berries from one of the bushes by a fountain—edible berries, obviously; blackberries, or something of the sort—and notice the crack at the base. On cue, the earth rumbles again and the crack widens a little.

Only a matter of days until that crack makes its way up the base and into the bowl of the fountain. The water will spill over and out and through, washing away my lovely footprints and flooding the ground. I'll lose both water—a necessity—and my lead in this arena. I'll have to prepare. I'll have to be quick.

I smile and finger the piece of rubber in my pocket that is my district token. I can do that. I can be swift, just as I can be strong and ruthless and courageous. I can do anything I want to, including winning these Games in a way no one else has ever seen.

_I am Eadem Ordinaria, and I am willing to be insane, if that's what it takes._

…_.._

_Luka Saroque, District One_

Not only are my allies complete _idiots_, they're also lazy.

Now, don't get the wrong idea, I dislike unnecessary work as much as the next teenager, but this is the _Hunger Games_, for Panem's sake! You can't just _take a day off_, like you have all the time in the world! We're _Careers_, though I'm starting to think that label is in name only. We _hunt_. It's what we do.

I'm _bored_. I've had enough of sitting around camp and cleaning and sharpening my knives. If I don't go somewhere else soon, I might just end up running those knives through those annoying District Four tributes' throats. Again and again. And then slitting their throats, just to be sure. And I'd actually do it, too, except Emerald and I have a solid plan and acting on that impulse would definitely jeopardize its foolproof nature.

I stand up abruptly. "We're hunting. _Now_."

"Shouldn't we wait until nightfall?" asks Emily. She looks genuinely confused. _Airhead._

"No," I spit back, ready to snap. "That was all right for day one, but this is day two and we're _wasting time_."

"Don't tell me you're _afraid of the woods_, are you, Emily?" Emerald chimes in, partly feigning innocence but partly enjoying the opportunity to taunt the inferior Career. "'Cause that would be really bad for our group. But you can stay back here and guard if you'd like."

Emily swallows. "No, thank you."

Carreen rises, still attempting to look like she's actually leading this crew. "Hunting it is. Marius, would you mind staying behind?" He nods and takes up his position as guard as we all grab our weapons and head into the woods for what I hope is not another day of fruitless searching.

If Emily is afraid of this forest, I can see why. It's creepily silent. When all five Careers aren't talking and are actually focused on the hunt, you can't hear anything, not even the footsteps. Each of my allies simply exudes determination and deadly skill, and I'm suddenly reminded why we're the most feared players of the Games—not because of our weapons training, but because of our mental training. We're not afraid. We're not barely holding onto the edge of survival. We dominate this arena, make it our ground. For others, this is a battle for survival. For us, this is a battle of glory.

The silence makes it easy to hear the whimpering coming from my left. There's someone there, someone who knows us and fears us like they should. "Show time," Emerald mutters, and we sprint as a pack over to the small camp where the two tributes have settled.

The girl—the one from Eight, as I recall—is the whimperer. She's crouching, leaning back against a tree with a knife hanging limply in her hands. Her ally, however, stands immediately. The boy from Seven has some kind of boomerang from the Cornucopia and aims it at us, but doesn't throw. Hesitant, then. He's never had to kill before. And even though he's much larger than me, he doesn't stand a chance.


	43. Lambs to the Slaughter

**Author's Note: Battles get their own chapters, though they're probably going to be shorter ones than normal chapters. They're also going to be from a POV that's _not_ one of the participating tributes, as not to spoil who lives and who dies. And we also get to follow up on some of the Gamemakers, mentors, Capitol citizens, and family members that we introduced earlier.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part II. Spark Raine, Emily's uncle and mentor, won the 181st Games. He was physically and emotionally the weakest of the Career pack, so when the formidable girl from Four turned on her allies, she didn't think to go for Spark until he had already fled the scene. He waited out in a cave until there was only him and the girl from Seven left, tracked her down, and slit her throat from behind.**

…..

_Fabian Flynncher, Gamemaker_

No one is surprised when the Careers manage to find Che Botill and Parker Bates' alliance. They've mostly stayed in one place this whole time, and the girl keeps whimpering and sobbing for everyone nearby to hear. If the boy had been the one to see the pack coming, he might have made an attempt to flee and possibly even succeeded, but it was the girl who was facing that direction and she isn't exactly lucid enough to warn her ally of the impending danger.

Personally, I'm relieved by the whole thing. After last night's lack of bloodshed, we've been worrying that the audience will get impatient with the Careers and, eventually, with the Games. We have plenty of surprises in store regarding the arena, but what is the point of an interesting arena when the tributes are such phenomenal failures? That's not my opinion, of course, but it is the way the majority of viewers think. And we as Gamemakers owe them a good show.

The Careers have formed a circle around their victims, cutting them off from any kind of escape. Luka crouches down beside Parker, who has curled herself into a fetal position with her eyes closed. Almost experimentally, he digs the point of his knife into her shoulder, clearly expecting some kind of reaction. But Parker stays absolutely still and makes no sound. Her whimpering actually seems to _stop_ with the pain.

Luka frowns at this and pushes the knife even deeper into her skin. Parker flinches a bit, but doesn't say anything.

Meanwhile, Che is staring down Carreen and Emily. All three have their weapons drawn and ready to fire, but all three are hesitating for some reason. After a moment, Che darts back and starts scaling a nearby tree as fast as he can. He doesn't make it very far, as Emily shoots an arrow into his hand, causing him to fall to the ground. He scrambles up and flings his boomerang into the air, knocking Emily's next arrow out of its path. From the other side of the circle, Emerald throws a knife, which Che just barely dodges. The boy is very clearly scared out of his wits, but his raw instinct for survival is enhancing his reflexes, as has happened with so many tributes before him.

Luka has been busy slicing up Parker, torturing her without killing her, unsuccessfully trying to get her involved in the battle. Che turns toward him and throws the boomerang, but he blocks it with his knife and it whirls back toward Che at a speed he can't dodge, hitting and bruising the boy's side before falling at his feet. As he picks it up, Carreen steps forward and swiftly thrusts her spear into the Seven boy's abdomen.

A look of shock spreads onto his face as he realizes that this is the end, that he's going to die. The supposed leader of the Career pack pulls out her spear, face carefully neutral, almost serene in her expression. Che falls onto his back, eyes glazed over. I push the button to sound the cannon. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Claret adjusting the scoreboard—the boy from Seven is no longer in the race, and Carreen Haggerty gets a kill to her name.

Luka stands, his knife pressed into the girl from Eight's throat. Blood is leaking from every possible vein, and yet she's still non-responsive. Catatonia—a fairly common coping mechanism. Maybe even a merciful one.

"Whose kill?" says Luka.

"You don't want it?" Gabriel says with a slight laugh, a mirror of their conversation during the bloodbath. I can see Amata smiling from across the room—she does enjoy when the tributes provide their own dramatic structure.

Luka snorts. "There's no point in it. Girl's practically a vegetable. I so had hoped to hear her scream," he says with a sneer, clearly intending to intimidate his fellow Career. It doesn't work.

Carreen shakes her head, rolling her eyes as she moves over to Parker. She slits the girl's throat in the matter of a second. Cannon. Another kill for the Four girl, whose style seems to be efficiency. Sixteen tributes left. We're a third of the way there.

The Careers head back to their camp, satisfied with the day's work. I lean back in my chair and watch them all on the screen, the sixteen teenagers scrambling for survival. I don't feel any remorse for them—why should I? At least they get the chance to fight for their lives, instead of just getting executed. This way, they have an opportunity, maybe even a glimmer of hope. And even if they don't live through it, they still have a shot at immortality by taking part in the story of the Hunger Games and the tale of history. People will remember them—as long as they give us a good show, of course.

There are those who disagree with me—rebels in both the districts and the Capitol who will argue that the tributes are innocent creatures, lambs led to the slaughter, tortured all the more by having to murder and be murdered for sport in hellish arenas. But the tributes themselves disprove that, the Careers especially. Anyone who goes into the Games for glory, knowing exactly what they're doing, is far from some angelic child sacrificed by the brutal Capitol. They're people, strong people, perhaps brutal people, but people all the same—people who deserve their chance to be great. And as long as the Hunger Games continue, that is exactly what is going to happen.


	44. Earth, Wind, Water, Fire

**I hope you all are having a good summer...**

**Again, don't count on the equations in Thalia's section making sense in context. I'm a writer, not a physicist. Or a cardiologist, for that matter.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part III. Kaety, a female mentor briefly mentioned in Luka's reaping chapter, won the 179th Games. Although she was excellent with a sword, her real skill proved to be in healing and she quickly became the Career pack's medic. Nobody wanted to kill her as she was proving invaluable to the alliance, which left her free to poison all the other Careers by rubbing nightlock juice into their wounds, claiming it was a "disinfectant."**

…..

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

Two cannons, one a minute after the other. I stand, turning toward the direction of the sound. The ground rumbles again and a harsh wind begins to blow. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. The Gamemakers are up to their tricks again.

I run to find cover, under a tree, behind a fountain, behind _something_. I begin to scale one of the trees before the wind begins to shake the branches and I fall with a thud onto the ground, which rumbles again. I stare up at the sky where clouds are gathering. They're going to make it rain, and, knowing them, it isn't going to be a light shower.

_Oh, come on. Weren't the earthquakes enough?_

There is a loud cracking noise from behind me and a limb falls off a nearby tree. I scramble to my feet and run in the opposite direction, trees snapping and cracking all around me. If the Gamemakers are trying to maneuver me into an encounter with another tribute, I won't mind, unless it's a Career. I'll have the advantage—I'm well-fed, I have two knives, and I've killed before.

Anderson. For some reason, I don't feel as guilty about killing him as I thought I would. He was my district partner. My _blind_ district partner. But whenever I start to think about him, thoughts of home flood my mind and propel me forward. I need to get home. That's the only thing I can afford to think about.

Another crack comes, striking a tree in front of me. I turn in the other direction, prepared to run, when something catches the corner of my eye. I freeze in my position, just barely turning my head to get a look at the thing. It's hard to see in the gray light of dusk, but those are eyes. Yellow eyes. Yellow _glowing_ eyes.

I don't move. I don't try to run. The mutt moves forward, almost hesitantly. I still can't see what it is, but I don't have to. In one swift motion, I turn, lunge forward, and stab it right between the eyes, pulling the knife out a split second after and sprinting in the opposite direction, jumping over the fallen branches of trees as the rain begins to beat down.

…_.._

_Jace Latone, District Nine_

When the anthem begins to play, I blink in confusion. It's still bright out, even though it's raining. Well, more like dimly lit, but the sun is still out and it felt like the storm only started an hour ago. It can't be night yet. But it is.

Bri, Caprice, and I are crouching underneath a tree, which really isn't helping to shelter from the rain. I wrap my jacket tighter around myself. It's _cold_. And _wet_. And I'm really, _really_ tired. I know, there's no use in complaining, but my tolerance and willpower to push away non-useful thoughts has pretty much crumbled. I'm so tense it feels like I'm going to snap at any moment.

"So..." says Bri, clearly starting a conversation just to fill up the silence. She glances up just in time to see the faces of her district partner and the girl from Eight project themselves onto the sky.

There comes a pause, then Caprice says, "Did you know him?"

She nods. "He was one of my brother's friends. He liked to make jokes."

Another moment of silence. I find myself thinking about Noaa. Was it really only two days ago that he died? It feels like a lifetime. I play back what I said to him the night before the Games:_"__Why do you draw attention to yourself by raging against the unfairness of this all? There's nothing we can do about it. You're just asking for trouble."_ He had just smiled knowingly at me, as if he had a secret that I would never understand.

And suddenly I'm curious about his poem, the one that they had taken away from him, the one that he had fought so hard to keep? What words were so dangerous and yet so precious that he didn't even care about his own safety? I think about my mother and the words that got her tongue cut out of her. Had she been warned too—by my dad, one of her friends, even a Peacekeeper? And if so, why had she gone on saying them anyway?

I shake my head and look at my allies, who have also turned to introspection. What are you supposed to say to something like that? What do you do when someone you've known your whole life dies in the Games and you can't help thinking that you're next?

Sometimes, I think silence is best.

…_.._

_Teagan Stratus, District Five_

The wolf has been following me for at least a day now, not attacking or biting, just waiting. I can't for the life of me figure out why. Maybe it's because I'm alone. Maybe it's to keep up the drama for the audience. Maybe it's to scare me—and, if so, it's working.

What is it waiting for? If it wanted to kill me, it would have killed me already. Is it supposed to wait until I'm too tired to carry on? That doesn't make any sense. I wouldn't be able to fight back, and if there's one thing you can count on in the Capitol, it's that they want us all to fight tooth and nail, to spare no effort. They want to see us at our worst.

My hand moves to the piece of paper stored in the pocket of my tribute uniform, the paper with the song on it, the song my parents used to sing to Kari and me in the night when they thought no one was listening. _Make me confused, mock me with praise, let me be used, vary my days... but alone is alone, not alive..._ We were too young to understand, but they weren't, and the Capitol certainly wasn't. That's what got my parents, in the end. That's why they-

No. No, they're not dead. This is their handwriting, and if their handwriting can be found on a piece of paper from District Nine, that means they're out there somewhere. My parents are alive and working to make things right.

And if I make it out of these Games alive, I can find them, maybe. That is, if the Capitol hasn't already caught on to these little, fragile threads of a rebellion...

The rain pelts down harder and a tree cracks down the middle, interrupting my thoughts. I glance back at the mutt behind me and think, _For now, all you have to do is make it out alive._

…_.._

_Carreen Haggerty, District Four_

This arena is seriously beginning to freak me out. Not only is there the impenetrable forest with the silent footsteps and the hidden tributes, not only are there random earthquakes that catch you off-guard and the raging storm that's felling trees by the minute, but the Gamemakers seem to be enjoying themselves by messing with the lighting. Last night it was pitch black, but now it's about midnight and it still looks like sunset on a rainy day. Gray clouds, gray sky, gray light. We get this kind of weather in Four when there's a serious storm at sea. The clouds don't break for weeks.

We have two tents, one for the boys and one for the girls, but I'm not in either of them. I'm sitting inside the Cornucopia, watching the sky. I needed fresh air and time to think, plan what I'm going to do next. I haven't had any time to myself the past few days. Not that I expected to, given that these are the Hunger Games.

Luka is a serious problem, both for me individually and for the alliance. He and Gabriel seem to be at each other's throats—well, Luka is, with Gabriel being coolly disdainful. The boy also seems to have it in for me, as he wants to be in control of the Career pack. Well, I'd like to see him try. I'm not really the leader of it, anyway.

The sooner I can get out of this pack, the better. In fact, I'd do so now if I didn't have Gabriel to think of. And besides, if I abandoned them too early, they might still be intact in order to hunt me down. And I certainly wouldn't be able to stand up to five angry Careers led by the psychotic boy from One.

The crack of lighting striking a tree jolts me out of my thoughts. I stare at the forest as the thunder rumbles. Fire is spreading everywhere. I shut my eyes closed instinctively, hand moving to the burn on my leg. _Fire, fire everywhere. And if the ship burns, we burn with it._

The rain will put this one out. But I can't help but remember the time when there was water all around but nothing to stop the flames from swallowing up my father.

…_.._

_Thalia Trinket, District Three_

"Run!"

I sprint forward as fast as I can, pulling Link along as he continually stumbles over his prosthetic. The lightning struck a tree about a yard away from us, and the wind caused it to spread in our direction. The rain is pounding harder but I can't tell if it's the Gamemakers trying to extinguish the flame or trying to make us even more miserable. Probably both.

"Do we have the backpack?" Link asks, breath ragged. I nod and push even further. We need to get as much distance between us and the flames as possible. Equations start racing through my head, calculating our speed, the fire's speed, how much rain was pelting onto it, how many minutes it would take to extinguish it...

—_speed = distance/time, distance = speed(time), time = distance/speed—_

—_faster, faster, faster—_

—_maximum heart rate = ~220 – (age)_

—_220 – 15 = 205—_

_205 beats per minute... every minute... 205 beats, 205 raindrops...__6, 11, 7, 10, 6, 9. 10, 8, 5, 6, 5, 8._ _11, 6, 6, 9, 8, 5. 8, 2, 7, 7, 7, 5. Something not right... something _wrong_..._

"Thalia!" Link's voice is far away. I feel myself hit the ground. All those numbers swirling around, making me dizzy... "Thalia, get up! Come on!"

..._ something's not normal, Thalia, pay attention_... the numbers fading into the darkness...

…_.._

_Veras Valdez, District Five_

A good eighth of the forest has become a wasteland of ash, thanks to a lightning strike on one of the trees. The fountains are cracked at their bases, and even though there are no leaks coming from there, the bowls are overflowing with rainwater. The forest floor around them is damp. Water squishes under my feet.

I think I have a pretty good idea about why I'm going to be needing that hiking pack soon.

Nobody's dead yet, though. Well, nobody since those two cannons fired hours and hours ago. The rain and the fire was just to mix things up, just to scare the tributes. From what I've seen, the Gamemakers prefer not to kill tributes directly, though they have enjoyed messing with our minds. Especially those who are on their own in this silent forest with no one to talk to, nothing to think about except their own impending doom.

I glance over my shoulder at the wolf-mutt who has been not-so-discreetly stalking me. Oh, yes. They _definitely_ want to drive us to madness.

I take in a deep breath. I can't allow myself to be afraid. Or rather, I can't allow myself to let the fear take control of me. The fight-or-flight response can be a blessing after all, but I can't let it rule my head. Otherwise, I might panic and do something regretful and get myself killed. And I am _not_ going to die. Not here, not today.

I scale one of the trees—more like the bare bones of a tree, actually, as most of the leaves have been burned or blown off. The amber-eyed wolf won't be able to follow me up here. I'll be safe. Well, as safe as anyone can be in the Games.

The clouds are clearing up and the sky is brightening. I've made it through another night and into a new day. The third day in this arena.

So many more to go.


	45. Another Day, Another Destiny

**As you may or may not have noticed, our story has a new cover image! For a closer look at it (and a few more banners for the story), visit s1150 -dot- photobucket -dot- com/albums/o602/amatalefay/****. The page will be added to as our story continues to unfold.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part IV. Montague Lennox, Marius's mentor and the mayor of District Two, led the Career pack during the 142nd Games. The pack was very efficient that year, in part due to Montague's leadership, and the only non-Career left after four days was the unusually vicious boy from Nine. After the Careers' violent split, there were only three tributes left. The Nine boy caught and tortured the One girl, but Montague mercy-killed her before attacking and killing him.**

…..

_Yon Trizzle, District Eight_

I didn't even know I was asleep until I wake up. I don't know what time it is. I don't know how many days I've been in this arena. I don't know if any more tributes died while I was asleep. I don't know and I don't care. At least, I'm trying my hardest not to.

When I look out on the forest around me, I find that part of the forest is burned. The ground is all wet and there's a thick fog all around that makes it so I can barely see the fountain a couple yards away. The light coming from overhead is dim and gray. And it's cold. Very cold.

No one has came my way for the past couple of days, so I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. The Head Gamemakers said to kill as many people as I can. Does that mean moving? My mentor said not to move if I have a good hiding spot. And no one has found me yet. But if I'm hiding, I'm not killing as many people as I can, and if I go out of my way to kill I'm not hiding and—

I hurl my handaxe into a nearby tree, cracking open the wood. I can feel something, the same thing I felt during my private session with the Gamemakers—anger. Frustration. Fury. Things that no one had told me to feel. They scare me. Now I'm scared, too. I try to push them out of my head, but they just end up coming back, stronger than ever, and I'm slashing at trees with my axe and my knives and I fall to my knees and let them sink into the ground, breathing hard and loud.

A silver parachute marked _D8B_ falls from the sky and lands in front of me. I pick it up and unwrap it. It's a large, warm loaf of bread. Bread from District Eight. I haven't eaten anything but berries in the past couple of days, so I slice it up with my knife and eat about a third of it. There's a piece of paper attached to the container. I pick it up and read it. I don't know if it's from my mentor or one of the Gamemakers; all I know is that it's my next order and I'm ready to follow.

It says: _Keep doing that, but with _living_ things next time._

…..

_Caprice Alexander, District Eleven_

The Gamemakers seem to be making a conscious effort to screw with the arena as much as possible. First the earthquakes, then the thunderstorm and the messed-up lighting, then the forest fire, and now the fog and the tree leaves, which seem to be going into harvest-mode despite the fact that it's the middle of the summer. When you look up, all you can see is red and gold and brown. It's breathtakingly beautiful, but there has to be some kind of deadly catch. This _is_ still the Hunger Games, after all.

"What the hell is going on?" Jace asks, staring up at the canopy almost distrustfully. For a moment I'm confused—who _hasn't_ heard of fall?—but then I remember Nine is an industrial district. They drill for oil. Jace has probably only seen trees in the Games, never mind trees whose leaves change color.

"It's normal," I say. "Well, normal for September and October. I have _no_ idea whatsoever why it's happening now."

"They're speeding up time," Bri says. "Does that mean we'll be having bare trees and snow in a couple of days?" It's supposed to be a joke, but she seems too preoccupied to carry it out. Her thoughts are very clearly elsewhere.

"Winter is coming," Jace mutters. A chill runs down my spine and I freeze in panic. Another craze is coming on, and I can't seem to shake them off as easily as I could before I was reaped.

"Um, I'm going to go find some more berries," I say, and dart off before anyone can object. I'm sprinting though the hazy forest, trying to get as much distance from my allies as possible. I don't want to hurt them, and when I'm in one of my bursts of emotion, I have _no_ self-control whatsoever.

All of a sudden I stumble over something on the ground and fall flat on my face. As I scramble to my feet, my brain struggles to process what exactly it is that I tripped over. It's big, very big, with dark fur and sharp teeth caught in the middle of a snarl. Glassy yellow eyes and a fatal stab wound right between them. I'm looking at the corpse of a wolf muttation, and even though it's dead, there are certain to be more to follow.

…..

_Marius Sheer, District Two_

What with the nearly-blinding mist and all, I'm fairly sure that today is going to be yet _another_ unsuccessful tribute-hunting day. That's all right by me. I'm not really one for watching other teenagers be tortured to death, though both Luka and the Capitol seem to be big fans of that sort of thing. Luka, that sadistic bastard, killing for the fun of it, or at least that's what he claims. I know, I'm a Career and I really shouldn't condemn him for something I've been training for all my life. But I prefer to think of myself as more desensitized to violence, rather than enjoying violence. And I've only killed one person, Kirby Knightly, who specifically _asked_ for it.

Kirby. He keeps invading my thoughts, even though he's been dead for days now. Kirby, who couldn't bear to live in an arena where his girlfriend was slaughtered, who didn't even give himself a chance. I had only known him for about a week, and yet the way I think about him makes it seem like an eternity.

I shake my head and try to focus on what's in front of me. Four fellow Careers—Gabriel stayed back to guard—and trees and the fog. No tributes as of yet. No one speaks; all of us are too absorbed in our thoughts, no doubt thinking about either strategy or home—the two are intertwined.

I try to force myself to think about Armen, what happened to him, why he lost, what his weaknesses were and how I can learn from them. When that becomes too difficult, I switch to thinking of all the reasons I need to win. _One, to bring pride to my district; two, to give Mom and Dad and Maria a better life in Two; three, to avenge Armen and live the life he never got to finish; four, to get back to Callia_...

Callia. I'm not sure what I think of her, and she's probably not sure what to think of me. But I _need_ to get home for her sake, if only so we can properly sort our feelings out.

I go back to thinking about my allies. If anyone were to betray each other, now would be a perfectly good time to do it. I shudder a little and tighten my grip on my axe. I could probably beat any one of them in a fair fight, but if someone were to go at me from behind and stab me in the back, I'd be dead before I even realized it.

Apparently Carreen is thinking the same thing, because about a minute later, she stops and turns around, her brow furrowed.

"Something the matter?" Luka says with a smirk.

The Four girl doesn't respond, looking more and more worried by the second. Finally she takes in a breath and says, face carefully neutral, "Emily's gone."

…_.._

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

A flash of red darts through the forest in front of me. Though her face is a blur, I can easily guess that it's the girl from Eleven—she's the only redheaded tribute this year. I hesitate for a moment, waiting to see what's chasing her. When nothing shows up, I, being the opportunistic tribute that I'm supposed to be, begin to pursue her myself.

I can just picture the broadcast in the Capitol, playing the standard supposedly-dramatic chase scene music as we run through the woods while the commentators bet on who's going to kill whom or if there are going to be any deaths at all. I roll my eyes. I'm not actually planning on killing her, not yet. I'm just going to do a little espionage. As I recall from training, the girl from Eleven—Caprice something or other—was in an alliance with the girl from Nine and the twelve-year-old Seven girl who got an 11 from the Gamemakers. All three of them were considered among the best bets to win besides the Careers.

Either Caprice is headed toward her allies or away from them, but I'd bet on toward. That would work out well for me—she'd lead me right to her camp, where I could hide out and spy on them while figuring out the best way to break them apart. I want these Games to be done with as quickly as possible, and that means breaking up the alliances early. That way, they'd turn against each other and wouldn't have many qualms about killing the others off. Less work for me, anyway.

Eventually the redhead slows to a more manageable pace. I accidentally brush against one of the tree branches. I duck behind the tree just as Caprice whips her head around. After a few minutes of this, I peek out from my hiding spot to see the Eleven girl on the move again, back turned toward me. I can begin to hear voices, presumably the voices of her allies, talking about something or another. I stop trailing the girl and scale a tree. The leaves work well as cover, and it gives me a good vantage point as well as raising my chances of survival should a fight break out.

A silver parachute drops out of the sky, bearing three ration packet meals for _D10G_. Food. One thing I once had lacked but now have plenty of, all thanks to making interesting television.

I'm both thankful and disgusted at the same time.

…..

_Eadem Ordinaria, District Six_

The rain washed away the footprints I had been tracking, my only lead. Damn those bastards in the Gamemaking center—aren't they supposed to _like _it when tributes go picking fights? Whatever. I'm going to keep heading in this direction anyway and hope I get lucky. Their camp can't be _that_ far away.

My stomach growls in indignation. I've been so busy tracking that I haven't bothered to eat much lately, and then only berries. I shouldn't let something like that bother me, but if it's going to insist...

I pick some edible berries from a nearby bush and cram them into my mouth, leaning against a tree and sighing in exasperation. It would be so tempting to just give up right here and now; any normal tribute would do that, I'm sure. Give up the hunt, find a good hiding place, and stay there until the competition has narrowed down significantly. But I _will_ carry on, if only to prove to myself that I can.

Proving things. It's pretty much the story of my life. Proving to my mom that I'm a normal boy and a good son, proving to Dad that I'm worthy of his attention, proving to the factory owners that electrocuting me is a bad idea for a punishment, proving to myself that the pain of electric shocks doesn't hurt so much. Proving that I'm capable of handling myself at the reaping, proving to the training instructors and Gamemakers that I'm a contender in these Games, proving to the Capitol audiences that I am a force to be reckoned with. And now, proving to everyone that you should_ not_ ignore me, because I'm a lot more than they all bargained for.

I get myself a drink of water from the fountain and begin heading in the general direction of the footprints, absentmindedly muttering under my breath. I have no way of knowing whether I'm getting closer or farther to my prey, and I'm just about to try heading in the other direction when I spot my quarry in the distance.

Time to be the predator.

…_.._

_Link Anderson, District Three_

Thalia's alive. Thank whatever god there may or may not be for that.

I still don't know why she collapsed—maybe too much physical exertion, maybe some Capitol drug that made its way into her system—and, to be honest, I really don't _want_ to know. All I care about is that's she's safe now, after awakening from her stupor a couple hours ago.

Despite the fact that, well, we're in the Games and only one of us can live, I've got to say that my district partner has grown on me. She's odd, certainly, but her intelligence and courage more than makes up for that. It's saved us both a number of times. Besides, she's kind of cute. And when it looked like she was dead or even comatose... I just... I just couldn't stop thinking that maybe I couldn't have gone on without her, at least not for long. The rational thing to do was to leave her there and lookout for myself, but I simply couldn't make myself be that ruthless, no matter how badly I want to win these Games and get back to District Three.

I try to push these thoughts to the back of my head—_tributes who have an emotional attachment to their allies are 3.92% less likely to win the Games, and you need all the help you can get—_but they just keep coming back, as insistent as ever. Finally, when I feel like I'm about to explode with uncertainty, I mumble something about going to get water in order to get out of the awkward silence between me and my district partner. She hands me the water bottle and the iodine and I head off to the nearest fountain to clear my head.

Call it love, lust, friendship, admiration, whatever you want, but the fact is that there's an emotion inside of me that I can't get rid of which might hinder my gameplan in the near future. What to do? Obviously killing or abandoning Thalia is not an option. Perhaps I can get it into my head that I have to protect myself in order to protect her—that way I'm looking out for my own interests without compromising my feelings. The logic's a little skewed, but as long as I can get my brain to play along, both Thalia and I should be safe. I exhale deeply, factoring this new piece of information into my mental calculation of my odds.

And then I hear the scream.


	46. Too Soon, Too Late

**The resolution to last chapter's cliffhangers is finally here!**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part V. Miranda, Emerald's mentor, won the 169th Games. During training, she formed a close bond with the girl from District One, and eventually they abandoned the Career pack and set out on their own. Unfortunately, the Gamemakers rigged it so that they would be the last two left, and after a long, painful battle, Miranda ran her ally through with a sword.**

…..

_Fromme Lin, Victor of the 182nd Games, District Three Mentor_

The girl doesn't know how to fight. It's clear from the way she moves—jumpy, fearful, barely missing the jabs of the spear. Not like I didn't know that before. Her strength's in her braininess, setting traps, that kind of thing. Wouldn't be able to last a day in the backstreets of the town.

It's nerves getting her through now, pure and simple. Fight or flight response, adrenaline rush, gut instinct, desperation to survive—whatever you want to call it, it kicks in and helps the middling tributes through the first minutes of a battle, when they actually have a chance to escape. After that—well, you're either skilled with a weapon or you're gone. Boom. A corpse to be looted, a face in the sky, a name in the log books. It's that simple.

Six keeps jabbing. Thalia tries to dart away, but she has to keep dodging the spear. She stumbles back, tries for an escape that way. He follows her.

It could've so easily been the girl from One. Turn left or turn right—one leading to the pathetic ex-Career wandering in the woods, the other to our tributes' alliance. Sheer matter of luck that Link was far out, too, fetching water. Everything seems to conspire against them. But that's how the Games are played.

He's running back now—more like walking as fast he can, what with the leg—hearing his partner's screams, unsheathing his sword, preparing for the fight. Sentimental idiot. The sensible thing would've been to get as far _away_ from the fight as possible. But he's going by the honor code or whatever, and so he's heading back to the camp.

The timing of it all was awful, story-wise. She had just came back to consciousness after Link had watched over her for hours on end, concern growing more and more until it got to a point where the Capitol could easily blow it up and proclaim it a romance. And now at least one of them's likely to die within the hour. I suppose the Gamemakers would call it _tragic_. I call it _screwed-up_.

Thalia's fast, but Six's fast too, and soon they've met up with each other again. They're interspersing it with footage of Link trying to find her. He gets to the camp, realizes they've gone, and tries to follow the sound of his district partner's screams.

Six lunges. Thalia drops to the ground and the spear goes into a tree. He moves over to tug it out, but his foot catches one of the traps the girl's set and he's yanked up into the air, dangling from a leg. She breathes a sigh of relief.

Over the years, I've managed to build up a resistance to the urge to yell at the scream: _No! Don't do __that! Get out of there! You're not safe yet!_ It's too late to send a note into the arena, 'cause the Six boy's still got his strength, and he pulls the spear out of the tree anyway and stabs downward into Thalia below. Cannon.

It's the moment every mentor has to face. I've done it at least four or five times before, but not even life on the streets can really prepare you for it. I try to put up my guard, but I know my eyes have gone hollow. Scott next to me notices, and puts a hand on my shoulder. I brush him off with a string of swears. I may need his pity, but that doesn't mean I want it.

Link barges in after hearing the cannon, just a moment too late, though there really wasn't anything he could do. Six is trying to swing up so he can cut himself loose with the tip of his spear, but Link beats him to it, severing the rope with one swing of his sword. Before the Six boy can get up, he stabs down into him, face tranquil and yet furious at the same time. Cannon.

From the back of the room showing the live broadcast, I can hear the muffled voices of the commentators having a field day with this, once _again_ bringing up the cliché "star-crossed lovers" tripe. It's sick. All of this is sick. I slam my coffee cup down onto the table and rise, glaring down everybody who makes eye contact with me before proceeding to storm out of the room.

"Fromme!" Scott calls after me, holding up the manila envelope filled with all my dead tribute's "genius" papers that had been sitting on my desk. "You forgot-"

"I didn't forget _anything_," I hiss. "_You_ keep them. Keep them all."

And then I leave, slamming the door and leaving it all behind me.


	47. Into the Dark

**Now that the pool of tributes has decreased, I'm changing the number of POVs per chapter to five...**

**More banners are up on ****s1150 -dot- photobucket -dot- com/albums/o602/amatalefay! New pics of Chantelle, Emily, Marius, and the bloodbath tributes. Please check them out!**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: Fromme Lin (the late Thalia's mentor and narrator of last chapter) won the 182nd Games. Her method of operation was to knock out the guard of whoever was on watch, drag them to a nearby cave, and ambush the rest of their allies when they went searching to find their missing partner. After five days, Fromme had managed to destroy every alliance in the arena, including the Careers. She won by shooting the boy from Two with a stolen crossbow.**

…..

_Emily Raine, District One_

I'm starting to regret leaving the alliance. Now I'm out here all alone, no one to talk to, not even sure where I am or where I'm going. The light is all gray and starting to fade, and it's hard to tell one area of forest apart from another when all the landmarks are the same.

_Just think of what would have happened if you had stayed with those Careers,_ I tell myself. _They would have killed you._ I think about Uncle Spark, who would've also been killed if he hadn't slipped away from the pack at the last moment. And he won the Games. So maybe I made the right decision...

The anthem plays. I look up at the sky. Two cannons had gone off about an hour ago. They sounded like they were very close. I think I even heard one of the tributes—a girl—screaming.

Sure enough, the first picture in the sky is the girl from Three. _She got the same training score as you_, I think. She had seemed so smart at her interview. Her district partner, the one with the mechanical leg, had gotten a nine, shocking everyone. Was he the one who killed her?

The second tribute gone is the boy from Six, the one with the creepy interview that was cut off short. _Maybe the Gamemakers arranged something to get him out of the way as soon as possible._

The Gamemakers. If they want you dead, that makes surviving the Games a hundred times harder.

I wonder what they have in store for me.

I shudder slightly and wrap my arms around myself, trying to shake off the thought. _It's getting cold out here._ My tribute uniform has a jacket, but it's been soaked by the rain and only makes me colder. Maybe Spark can get me a warmer one, if I need it. That is, if I have sponsor money.

I look up, but no parachute drops from the sky. _At least you're still alive_, I think. _Three full days in. Thirteen tributes left, plus you. Plenty good odds for right now._

A low growl comes from a dark patch of dense trees to my left. I jump up in surprise, immediately shooting an arrow in its general direction. Nothing happens. Whatever-it-is is still growling, and now I've lost another arrow. I try my best not to start screaming as I stumble back and run off in the opposite direction.

_Uncle Spark, please, please, send me something! _I think, but I know that this is something I'll need to face on my own.

…..

_Veras Valdez, District Five_

I haven't moved from my tree for hours on end, at least. I know exactly how stupid this is—I'll get dehydrated if I stay up here much longer, and there are no leaves to provide cover; if another tribute with a ranged weapon were to wander this way, I'd be dead in seconds—but the wolf circling around the base of the tree is looking particularly vicious, and I just know that if I were to climb down into its reach, I would die an even more painful death by the hand of the mutt.

It's the Gamemakers, of course, trying to keep up the suspense for the audience while scaring the crap out of the tributes. I have no way of knowing for sure, but I suspect that they're targeting the ones who aren't in alliances. This arena seems to be quite large, so there's less of a chance that lone tributes would be found by the Careers, and there's only so much footage of teenagers walking around looking for food that the Capitol people can stand. Adding mutts creates a similar sense of ever-present danger as an unstable alliance.

They aren't killing us, not yet... but they do seem to be pushing us toward something... I shudder at the thought.

Suddenly I begin to feel feverish all over and remember that I haven't eaten in some time as well as not drinking. Food has gotten increasingly hard to find. I would chew on some leaves if the trees had any left... I lift up my hand, which is clenched around my knife. It's shaking uncontrollably, like the rest of my body. If I were to throw it down and hope it injures the mutt, it would probably miss.

The wolf gives me an evil-looking grin. _Don't think like that,_ I immediately reprimand myself. _It's just a wolf. You need to stay rational. Maybe you can divert its attention away from you..._

My eyelids grow heavy and close, blacking out my vision. _No, no, you've got to stay awake... if you fall asleep and then fall out of the tree you'll die..._ I reach out and grip what I hope is a sturdy branch with my unoccupied hand. Maybe I can find something in my hiking pack to tie myself to the... to the tree... before I... before I fall asleep... and then I'll get water... when I wake up...

_If_ I wake up...

…..

_Bri Geers, District Seven_

I lean back against the tree and close my eyes. _It is night, and the woods are dark, but both A.J. and I can see clear enough to recognize my father's face. Yet we can't see the face of the man he's talking to, and that's the one that matters._

"_Mr. Geers?"_

"_...who is this?"_

_There is a cough, and then a husky voice replies, "Raine. Spark Raine."_

_My muscles tense. I try to spring up, to dart out from behind the bush we are using for cover and pull my father away from the man whom I know is going to kill him. But I'm frozen, eyes wide in horror as I witness the scene once again in my mind, powerless to change anything._

_He lowers his voice to a whisper. My ears strain to hear what he is saying, but no matter how hard I try, I can never make it out. There is a beat of silence as he stares into the other man's eyes, and the next thing I know my father has fallen to the ground, knife in his gut-_

I shake my head and open my eyes. _He's dead, nothing can change that,_ I tell myself, but I can't exactly stop the feelings of guilt rising to the surface of my mind. I had been there. I could have stopped him, jumped up as soon as I saw him and delayed his meeting with Raine...

Raine. Raine and his niece. Right now, I don't give a damn whether she's innocent or not—I _am_ going to kill that girl from District One, if only to let everyone watching know exactly what will happen if you hurt the people I love, and then I am going to win these Games and go home to District Seven and live the life that my father never got to.

_She'll be with the Careers right about now,_ I think. _I'm going to need a plan if I'm going to ambush them and live._ I glance at my sleeping allies. I doubt they'll want to risk their lives taking on the Careers. But I'll need to act soon, before someone else gets to finish her off before I do...

For a moment, I waver in my resolve. I don't want to leave—Jace and Caprice are among the best allies anyone could hope for. They may even be my friends. But then I remember my seven-year-old self cradling my father's bleeding body and my decision is made. "Thank you," I whisper to them, and, after taking one of the boxes of crackers out of our backpack, I disappear into the darkness.

…..

_Gabriel Maddox, District Four_

I've started making it a habit to stay awake for at least half an hour after each switch of the night guard, to prepare for the inevitable split of the pack. I have a feeling that I'll be one of the first targets, but if I stay alert and keep my sword at the ready, I'll have a considerable advantage over everyone else. I don't know about the others, but I'd rather not get sliced to pieces by Luka Saroque, thank you very much.

Emerald's on guard now. There is silence for the first ten minutes, but then a low whisper drifts over to my ears. My muscles tense. I continue to feign sleep, but roll over in order to better hear who is speaking and what they are saying.

"When?" The boy from One. _Speak of the devil._ "Now's as good a time as any. And I'd rather get over with it sooner than later."

"It can wait," says Emerald. Her voice sounds a lot older than it usually does. "There are still tributes out there for us to hunt as a pack."

"Seven," he says with a snort. "That's nothing. Besides, the Fours are getting problematic." _Really?_ I think, somewhat sarcastically. _I hadn't noticed._

"This isn't about your personal vendetta against Gabriel Maddox," Emerald says, annoyed. "If you want to off them, fine, but it had better not interfere with the plan." Her voice drops in volume and there are several exchanges of murmurs that I can't make out.

"Emily left, why shouldn't we?" Luka whispers harshly. He seems to be having problems controlling his frustration.

"Because Emily just _left_. She didn't try to take down the pack with her," the girl replies. "Besides, she was weak. We could afford to cut her loose."

"Well, do you have a _better_ idea of the right time to strike?"

There is a pause. This is the critical piece of information—not _who_, we all knew that, but _when_. Emerald's answer could very well affect both my and Carreen's lifespans.

"Not particularly," she finally says. "Whenever it'll surprise them the most. After a couple more tributes are dead. I'll let you know."

It sounds like a lie.

…..

_Teagan Stratus, District Five_

I'm starving. I'm exhausted. I'm more frightened than I have ever been before, so much that I can barely think about anything other than the wolf-mutt with its eerie glowing eyes ceaselessly pushing me toward a vantage point only it can see. No time to sleep, only barely enough breaks for water, just constant movement. I'm surprised that I haven't run into any other tributes yet—and if the wolf's not leading me to them, then where?

"_What are you trying to do to me?"_ I want to yell to the skies in hopes that the Gamemakers might hear me. _"How long are you going to make this last?"_ But my throat's so dry that I don't have enough of a voice for yelling.

Occasionally, I find my thoughts drifting toward my parents. The possibility of them not being dead is dwindling in my mind, but if they are alive, are they watching this? Do they know that they're daughter's being tortured to the brink of insanity? Do they care? _No, Teagan, don't think that, of course they care,_ I try to tell myself, but it doesn't work. If they cared for a moment about me and Kari, they wouldn't have gotten us all in danger with the Capitol. Surely they knew that even if they were able to divert the government's attention away from us for a little while, in a few years they'd catch up to us and put us in the Games as punishment. And me—I hadn't done anything wrong. It was all them. All their fault...

"Someone to pull you up short, to put you through hell," I mutter under my breath, recalling the words from the Nine boy's slip of paper, from the old-world song that somehow survived to be used as rebel code. _At least Noaa Carpenter died early,_ I think bitterly. _Before they could give him a more horrible death for possessing... that._ Behind me the wolf snarls, as if it knows what I'm thinking is punishable by death. It keeps pushing me forward.

The rebellion. Why would anyone join it if they knew the Capitol would stamp it out? First the dark days, then Katniss Everdeen's defiance and the return of Thirteen, and now this—put down every time. Just more pain for everyone, in the long run.

Suddenly, the wolf stops and begins circling around me. In the darkness, I squint to see where we are. I'm standing on a cliff. A sharp, rocky cliff that juts out of the forest, coming out of nowhere. There's a sort of low orange glow coming from below, like the sunrise starts here. I peer over the edge and immediately suck in a breath.

This is it, then. Nowhere left to run.

The wolf behind me howls, and its call is immediately answered by the growls and snarls of tens if not hundreds of others prowling the ground below. I snap my eyes shut and watch my life flash before my eyes as the mutt shoves me off the ledge and into the jaws of the beasts below.


	48. Tooth and Claw

**New pictures of Teagan, Link, and Anderson are up at ****s1150 -dot- photobucket -dot- com/albums/o602/amatalefay, as well as some new covers for my one-shots.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part VII. Scott, Link's mentor, won the 176th Games. During training, he formed an alliance with six other tributes which ran into the Careers on day ten. An hours-long battle ensued, leaving only three of its participants alive but heavily-wounded. While Scott hid out, camouflaged, the other tributes killed each other off one by one. After a final battle with her district partner, one of Scott's former allies bled out right in front of him.**

…..

_Lincoln Jefferson Aetius, Vice President of Panem, Capitol Citizen_

"_And none of the other interrogation techniques have been working?"_

"_From what I've heard, no."_ I want to roll my eyes at this, a sentence I've been forced to repeat far too many times for my liking. How many ways _are_ there to get Avoxes to give up information? But both the president and the Head Gamemaker are on the other end of the communicuff, so there's no time for rants, even short ones. When you're woken up at three in the morning and told to report straight to the intelligence department headquarters, you know that this is serious business.

"_Show them—the tape—then,"_ says Amata. Her verbal tic always throws me off-guard, no matter how many times I've heard the woman talk. _"I've had—Claret—edit out the—commentary—and the music. Along with the other—threats, it should—be—enough—to—convince them."_

"_Let us hope so,"_ Shadow replies. _"Aetius, make sure the boys wrap this up by five. We have a congress session and then some wedding banquet with the mayor of One."_

"_Yes, ma'am. I'll report back in an hour."_

I lower the volume on my earpiece and hand one of the tech people the small silver disc containing the most recent Games footage, glancing down at the info sheet as I do so. _Galen and Ana Stratus (née Darrow); 43 and 47 years old, respectively; District Five. Reported missing by neighbor 2 months ago; planted in the Capitol as Avoxes approx. 1 week after that. Two daughters—Karilyn Tamar Stratus, 17 years old, currently residing in District Five with Alder Denison; and Teagan Lee Stratus, 15 years old, currently residing in Capitol as tribute in the 191st Annual Hunger Games [see individual profile]._ They hadn't updated it yet to accommodate for her death.

The techie nods at me, signaling that the video is ready. I clear my throat, and a young man clad in all black looks up expectantly. "You can go in now," I say, handing him the sheet of paper. He pushes open the door to the interrogation room and takes a seat across from the two Avoxes. I move closer to the one-way glass of the window, listening intently for breakthroughs I could report back to Shadow.

"Good morning, Mr. Stratus, Mrs. Stratus." There is a short, tension-filled pause before he adds, "We have news for you that you might be keen on hearing regarding your daughter."

The shot is a beautiful one, some of the best camerawork the Games have seen in years. After days of running, the girl from Five falls from the cliff in a graceful arc, eyes closed and arms spread out as if she were flying, the light around her an orange sunrise. The image begins to fade into black, but just as you think you should be hearing the cannon, the snarl of a wolf snaps you back into the scene. Teagan Stratus has survived the fall, and her gruesome death scene has only just begun.

It isn't long until the screaming begins, the screaming and sobbing and pleading that comes even though she knows no one is coming to help her. The prisoners sit absolutely still, eyes locked on the screen. The woman clearly looks remorseful and a bit frightened, but her husband's face is a lot harder to read.

"You knew it was going to happen," the interrogator says. "Ever since you joined up with that... rebellion." He stares into Galen Stratus's eyes and there is a silent battle of wills until the man in black says, "You could have stopped it. If you had refused to go with the rebels, given up their information to us, even, we would have shown mercy. Your daughters would have been safe from this." He gestures to the screen, where the girl is being tossed back and forth between the mouths of the wolves, each mutt tearing off a bit for her flesh. The man's tone is smug and just a little bit cruel. _Enjoying his job just a bit too much, I suppose..._

As the two parties continue to glare at each other, I catch snippets of Amata and Shadow's conversation. _"You only have two of them left. You need to make sure you get to them before the other tributes do."_ And then, later: _"Can you get me that Nine boy's paper before the wolves tear it up? We need to get their codes if we're going to try infiltration by September."_

I glance back at the Avoxes. The interrogator has started up another line of questioning. "You have another daughter, yes? Karilyn—Kari, is it? It'll be her last year in the Reaping come next Games..." A grin slowly spreads across his face. "Are you feeling more agreeable now?"

A pause. A cannon booms, and the girl from District Five is no longer breathing. Her body is mangled beyond repair—they won't be able to send her back in a coffin, I'm afraid.

Less than a second later, a bang comes from inside the interrogation room. I stumble back, at least partially in shock. The man just shot our agent with a pistol from out of nowhere.

More shots sound, bullets hitting the one-way glass and shattering it to pieces. My bodyguards move to protect me, but even the few seconds it takes to traverse the room is too late. The sharp pain of a bullet digs into my gut. I double over in pain and stumble back, clutching the wound that blood is starting to leak from.

"_Aetius, what are you doing?"_ Shadow says through the comm, unnervingly serene as usual. _"I hear gunshots. What is going on?"_

I shoot a quick glance in the direction of my assailants. They haven't tried to escape; they've barely even move. Both husband and wife have fallen onto the floor, lying in a pool of blood. _Suicide,_ I think, though my thoughts are getting hazier and more incomprehensible by the minute. _So you don't let us know your secrets. Kill yourself for... the greater... good..._

"_We lost our lead,"_ I murmur into the cuff before collapsing onto the floor as the darkness envelops me.


	49. Requiem

**Now that school's started, expect chapter updates to slow down accordingly.**

**New banners of Luka & Emerald, the District Four tributes, Che, Veras, Bri, the Jace-Bri-Caprice alliance, and Parker, Yon, & Eadem have been posted, meaning all twenty-four of the tributes have been depicted. Check it out at s1150 -dot- photobucket -dot- com/albums/o602/amatalefay. **

**Also, a special announcement: Whoever gives this story its 191st review will get one super-secret _spoiler_ (that is, if they want it; if not, I'll make other arrangements). I will give more details to the lucky reviewer when it comes.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part VIII. The D4 mentor, Quill Isotes, won the 184th Games at fourteen years old. She made a strong impression at the interviews, using her likeable personality and stories of her struggling family to reel in sponsors. In the arena, she ran with the Careers until the pair from Five attacked them, after which she fled to the western moors, lived off of sponsor gifts, and picked off the rest of the tributes. Her entire Games lasted seven days.**

…..

_Emerald Honeycomb, District Two_

We're not hunting today. That was the unspoken yet unanimous decision we made when we woke to the sounds of tortured screams coming from the forest, screams that didn't stop until hours later. Secretly, I'm relieved. Those shrieks and howls were enough to freak out anybody, Career or no. At least I'm not alone in letting it get to my head. Even _Luka_ seems quieter today. You've got to admit, that's a miracle in and of itself.

I'm sitting close to our campfire, with the aforementioned boy from One sharpening his knives across from me. Marius leans back against the Cornucopia with closed eyes, while the two Fours sit inside the golden horn, talking quietly to each other. I've been listening in on their conversation—what reasonably intelligent tribute wouldn't be?—but they aren't talking about anything of note. Neither of them seem to have overheard any of our plotting—a supreme stroke of luck indeed, given how _stupid_ Luka was to start discussing the plan so soon after the shift in watch. _Loudly_. Tributes learn to sleep light, Careers even more so. He should have figured that out by now.

I roll my eyes. I always knew I was going to be the smarter of the pair of us, but I must have underestimated by how much.

Gabriel and Carreen have apparently reached a lull in their conversation, so there's a long moment where all you can hear is knife-sharpening. I flinch a little as my head immediately fills the silence with the earlier sounds of screaming.

One side of me, the tough, Career-trained side tells me to buck up. _Come on, Emerald. You can do better than this._ The other side reminds me that there's a _reason_ my strategy isn't to slaughter everyone left and right. I'm being clever about it, and clever people tend to be smart enough to know to stay away from screams.

There's a third part of my mind that tells me to change the topic, and, surprisingly, the one my thoughts gravitate towards is my family. How's Dad doing? What about Mom? And Mint—is he training by now? What about Montgomery? Are any of them watching me right now, desperate to know what I'm thinking?

I glance back at Marius, Gabriel, Carreen, Luka, tempted to ask if they have siblings or not, people waiting for them to come home. Immediately, I decide against it. That's not something you do in the Hunger Games. Especially not the _victors_.

You can't let yourself think kindly of those you're going to kill.

…..

_Link Anderson, District Three_

Screams echo in my sleep. Thalia's screams, the girl from earlier's screams—even the boy from Six is screaming in this dream, along with his twelve-year-old district partner who was slaughtered in the bloodbath. I can see my dad somewhere in the hazy distance and try to run to him, but I just trip over my prosthetic and the screams grow louder as I hit the ground, pleas for help becoming all too painfully clear—

I shudder as my eyes fly open. "Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream," I immediately tell myself, but even the fact that I have to say it shows that I'm slipping. I let out a sigh and stretch my arms out wide, looking up at the sky. Apparently, I'm not going to be getting any quality sleep in the next few days.

There was a cannon boom a few hours ago—presumably the screaming girl. That means there are only twelve tributes left, besides me. _The final thirteen. _I can't help but chuckle a little—at my reaping, did anyone in the Capitol audience think a crippled boy with one deaf ear would make it this far? Not a chance. And now...

Now I can barely bring myself to do anything but eat and sleep, where all my dreams are terrible nightmares about my district partner's death.

No. _Thalia_. She has a name, and it's Thalia. And she was brave and sweet and brilliant and deserved to be treated a hell of a lot nicer than I did. I didn't really spend any time getting to know her—I was too eager to see her as a number, a statistic for me to overcome. Who were her family, her friends? Where are they now, and do they all hate me for failing to save the girl they loved?

It doesn't even matter if they do._ I_ will. I _always_ will, and that's what's going to matter in the long run. Even if I somehow manage to escape this horror of an arena, how am I going to live with myself knowing that Thalia—_twenty-three_ Thalias—died because of me?

A whisper escapes my lips—"Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry." I must seem so _weak_ to them, those bastards in the Capitol who know _exactly_ what they're doing to us and _celebrating_ it, making a mockery of every real emotion I've ever felt?

_There isn't any time for those thoughts,_ I tell myself._ You have to move on._

I take up my swords and backpack and head deeper into the forest, not knowing where I'm going but ready to be gone.

…..

_Yon Trizzle, District Eight_

As soon as I finish my bread loaf, another one drops from the sky in a parachute marked _D8B_. I smile. Parachutes—those are good. Especially lots of them. It means you have sponsors, and sponsors make sure you have food and supplies, and food and supplies mean you have a better chance of surviving the Hunger Games, or so my mentor said. It makes sense to me—like a math problem. Simple. Easy to process, easy to understand. Unlike all the other rules of this arena.

To kill or to hide? To ally or stay alone? Everyone has a different answer, and no one knows which is the right one. There has to be a right answer, right? Maybe I can find it while I'm here. But I don't know where I'd look.

There's a note on this parachute. _Keep trying._ With what—the last instruction? _Keep doing that, but with _living_ things next time._ I did try. The squirrels were all too fast and I didn't find any tributes. Besides, I couldn't get scared or angry or confused like last time, because I had instructions. Instructions, objectives—they calm me down, not rile me up.

I keep moving, because they want me to kill things and I can't do that while I'm hiding. Maybe they want both. But that's not possible, not for me. And they want me to kill more, because killing gets you out of the Hunger Games and that's what Thera and my mentor want. And the Gamemakers want me to kill. And I will.

_Living things._ I stop, looking at the stretch of trees ahead of me. There are eyes. Gold ones, like animals'. It's a mutt. Mutts are living things...

I throw and my axe buries itself in the mutt's head. Blood leaks out. It's dead. I killed it. I followed my orders.

As approving parachutes fall down all around me, a memory flashes in my mind—my parents and my sister, Ren. A family portrait of us. They're watching me now, on their TV screens. All of District Eight is.

I wonder if they're proud of me.

…..

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

The girl from Seven has disappeared, packed up and left last night, and the dynamic of the alliance seems a lot more unstable now that she's gone. Nine and Eleven are barely talking to each other, aside from the initial "where's our ally?" conversation and a few exchanges while they're out foraging. Seven seems to have been the glue holding the group together—both of the girls left behind look incredibly uneasy now. And, to be honest, so am I.

Four straight days they've pelted us with earthquakes, thunderstorms, forest fires, and wolf mutts, and no doubt the Gamemakers have many more nasty surprises planned for our stay here in the arena. And then today comes—nothing's happened yet, and the sun's already beginning to set. There was that girl being tortured by something early this morning, true, but that was hours ago. The last few days have been absolutely jam-packed with threats, constant action so the masses will be entertained. Why would it be any different today?

They could be taking a break. The Gamemakers do that—purposely have a lull in the action. Even the most eager of Capitol audiences need a breather once in a while. There may some interesting bits of alliance tension they want to focus on—like this one here. And, of course, they'll need to follow up on wherever Seven is. Unless she was the dead one this morning. _It's a possibility, but not a likely one,_ I decide. She may be only twelve years old, but she did score an 11 in training and seemed too fiery a character for the Gamemakers to waste on a day four death.

It used to scare me, how much I think like a Gamemaker. But when you're in the arena, it's possibly the most valuable skill you'll ever need to know.

Other reasons for the break... something could have happened, something political or even a natural disaster in one of the districts, that warrants even more attention than the Hunger Games—

As soon as I have the thought, there's no taking it back, and soon my mind is thinking about what happened at the reaping, back in Ten, that uprising that Gramps caused, the gunshots and the screaming and the Peacekeepers and whether or not I still have a family and that fact that I _don't know_ if there's anyone watching me on TV thinking of me as anything more than just another tribute.

And the thing is, I'm not sure if I _want_ them to see me this way or not.

…..

_Jace Latone, District Nine_

"Jace?"

"Mm," I sit up from my position on the ground, where I'd been staring up at the evening sky, waiting for the faces of the dead to appear. My interest in the broadcast has piqued for some reason—okay, maybe it's because I want to see how much competition I have left. No denying that. But it's also our only connection to the world outside the arena. And if _somehow_ any of us is going to stay sane, we're going to need that.

When you put it that way, it sounds morbid. Well, you should check out the rest of my thoughts today. I've been thinking a lot about death. Specifically my own impending one.

Caprice turns to look at me. For a moment her face looks deathly afraid, then she reverts back to normal, pained yet grave. "Sorry." She takes in a deep breath. "Who do you have back at home? In Nine?"

The topic comes up rather abruptly, I think, especially since we've just spent the whole day talking to each other as little as possible. "Um. Well, there's Darian—my dad. And that's it." Short, sweet, and utterly uninteresting.

"Just you two?"

"Yeah." For a moment I wonder if she's trying to catch me off-guard talking about my family and stick her knife into my throat. Then I roll my eyes and tell myself to stop being paranoid. Though apparently it's not a bad thing if you're in the Hunger Games.

"And your mom is..."

"Gone." I cross my arms—I don't like talking about this subject. Back home, I'd usually let Darian handle it for me.

There's an awkward pause, and I'm about to lie back down for more sky-gazing when Caprice asks, almost in a whisper, "Is she in the Capitol? As an Avox?"

My eyes widen, and I don't even know what I'm doing until I've got my ally pinned to a tree, my hand resting on the hilt of my knife. "_How do you know?_" It comes out as an angry hiss, though I really don't know how many different emotions are wrestling in my head. "How did you know it was her?" My voice breaks. I let go of the girl and step back, turning away so she won't see my face. Usually I'm good at hiding my emotions, but there are some times that I just can't seem to get a grip, no matter how hard I try. "Sorry," I mutter. "I'm sorry."

I can hear Caprice sigh before she leans back against a tree, closes her eyes, and tells me everything.


	50. Crossfire

**The hiatus is over, and it's the fiftieth chapter! I never imagined I would get to this point in the story. Thank all of you for your continued support. Without you, this would never have been possible.**

**The lucky 191st reviewer (from many months ago) is... AllThoseShadows! So a big round of applause for her, and as for the rest of you, I hope you aren't too disappointed—you'll learn the same piece of information a bit later down the road, and who knows? There might be another contest opportunity in the near future.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How The Mentors Won Their Games, Part IX. Gabriel Fells, a recently-deceased D4 mentor mentioned in Carreen's reaping chapter, won the 117th Games, reaped the same year his sister was. They split from the Career pack and headed south, picking off the tributes they found injured along the way. Soon the pair were cornered by Careers on one side and triceratops mutts on the other. Gabriel saw his sister being slaughtered by the dinosaurs and, in a terrifying rage, killed all the Careers by himself.**

…..

_Emily Raine, District One_

It seems like months have passed since the faces were last shown in the sky. One face, that is. The girl from District Five, obviously killed by the same kind of mutts that have been stalking me.

_The mutts._

They've gathered, one by one, crawling out of each part of the woods as I run further and further trying to get away from them. They haven't killed me yet. But they will. Soon. Unless I can find a way to lose them...

I've tried shooting them, but they're so big and strong. They shake off my arrows, like their hides are impenetrable or something. I mean, there's some blood, but not much. And the blood that does... it just creates a trail so that even more mutts can find me and chase after me.

Maybe they're leading me towards something. Something dangerous. Other tributes, maybe?

But what could be more dangerous than a pack of mutts following you around?

I don't know. I honestly don't know. I can't help but wonder if this is happening to the other tributes or if it's just me...

My mind keeps going back to what Ivan said to Spark the night the training scores were announced. "You just don't want your _precious_ little niece to end up on the edge of a sword for what you did!" And then I remember how panicked Spark looked at my reaping, and how he "shouldn't have"... shouldn't have _what_?

What did Spark do? And why do _I_ have to end up dead because of it?

I glance back over my shoulder. The mutts are still there. Something swells up in my throat and I begin to panic because _I don't want to die_. Why do I have to die.

The words come out of my mouth without thinking, hoarse and barely audible. "Spark... Spark... I know... what... what shouldn't have... at least tell me why... send a note..."

But nothing comes.

…..

_Caprice Alexander, District Eleven_

After I told her, Jace just stood there, not moving or saying anything for what seemed like an impossibly long time. When she returned to reality, it was already dark and she just curled up next to a tree and went to sleep. Still not saying anything. It's kind of worrying, but then again, I wouldn't know how it would feel, suddenly rediscovering your mother after years of not knowing her. And finding that out during the _Games_, of all times...

I let her sleep.

After a few hours on watch, I begin to notice rustles in the nearby trees. Maybe they're just leaves falling. The trees seem to be shedding more as of late. But it's far too loud to be single leaves falling onto the ground. It's multiple leaves at once. Could it be... footsteps?

A craze of panic floods my mind. I can feel myself gripping my knives so tight it hurts, but somehow that manages to bring some measure of comfort as I bring myself back under control. _Breathe, Caprice. Inhale, exhale._

Another rustle and I'm jumping up again, knives at the ready. Nothing. _Caprice, it's just nerves._

Again. When I hit the ground from my jump I'm running as fast as I can, not thinking like any sort of rational person would, not thinking about how I'm leaving Jace alone and the supplies unguarded and how I couldn't have heard footsteps because the ground sinks in the vibrations—_we discovered that on the first day, Caprice—_andhow this running wouldn't do any good if someone was trying to ambush, they'd just be chasing me and they're probably much, much faster—

I'm too busy running that I don't notice when I slam into someone.

_Damndamndamndamnwhoisitwhois itit's... it's the girl from Ten..._

Chantelle Jacobsen stares down at me, knives also brandished. My impulses completely take over my brain as I slash and run, even faster than I did before, back to the camp.

I jolt Jace awake. "We need to move. Someone... someone's following us."

…..

_Bri Geers, District Seven_

She's not there.

_She's not there._

I've counted the figures sleeping around the Cornucopia about twelve times, just to check. The boy from Two on watch, his district partner, both from Four, and the boy from One, but no Emily Raine.

Inwardly, I curse myself. She must have left days ago, which either means she's paranoid or the Careers are falling apart. Yet all of them are alive. If I wanted to strike their alliance, now would be as good a time as any. But you can't strike the Careers by yourself, and I abandoned my own alliance yesterday. There's no going back to them for help. Not that they would _want_ to attack the Careers. They're much, _much_ saner than I am.

A part of me wonders if they're okay, and soon the pangs of regret are starting up again. The Gamemakers couldn't have let them go on this long without some sort of drama, and now that I'm gone... are there mutts coming for them as I sit here? The same mutts that killed the girl from District Five? I shudder involuntarily at the thought, then begin stepping back.

_Crunch._

My eyes fly wide open. So do the boy from Two's.

The leaves. _Damn._ The leaves turned red, then dried up and fell. The Gamemakers are accelerating the seasons—isn't that what Jace and Caprice and I figured out? Have I really been too focused to notice it happening after I left?

Never mind that. The Two boy is heading my way and if I don't start running, I'll be dead before I can even lay a finger on Emily Raine. Immediately, I turn tail and run as fast as I can, glancing over my shoulder all the while.

Eventually, he stops his chasing and heads back to the camp. I keep running, not even caring if I'm overheard. I need to find Emily _now_. Before the Gamemakers or anyone else gets to her. Before winter starts and all of the trees' cover blows away.

Before everything else in this arena dies.

…..

_Veras Valdez, District Five_

I've barely been awake an hour and I don't know how long I've slept, only that the wolf-mutt staring up at me is definitely, totally real.

This isn't as obvious a statement as one would think it would be. It's been almost as if I'm under tracker jacker venom the past twenty-four hours—that is, vivid hallucinations and dreams that you can't tell apart from waking. I don't actually know what tracker jacker is like—only the symptoms, written on paper—and I don't want to know. One muttation is enough to deal with at a time.

But the mutt is real, and I'm awake, and I have to get _out_ of this situation—out of this tree—before the Gamemakers get bored and decide to send mutts that can climb. Or order this one to jump as high as it can. They wouldn't care if its mouth was only able to tear off half of me.

The nearest secure limb on the nearest tree is only about a foot away. If I can slide myself over a few inches, my right foot should be able to step onto it.

I stare at the branch. My vision's still hazy. What if I miss it? I would fall and then the mutt would have me. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them up again. It's still blurry, and barely visible in this light.

I could try and calculate my odds, but I'm not sure they would be in my favor. So instead, I push back all my fears and, quite literally, go out on a limb.

There's a horrible moment where I feel my foot falling through air and have just enough time to think _this is it, this is the end_. Then, the falling abruptly stops. The weight of my foot springs the branch up a little. I slide onto it and swing the rest of my body into the next tree.

I try another. Then another. Soon, I'm practically jumping between the trees, just light enough not to break any branches.

I don't know if the wolf is following me yet. All I know is that I'm safe, as long as I keep moving.

…..

_Luka Saroque, District One_

As the night lingers on, it becomes almost impossible to wait through each of the goddamn minutes. Why is this taking so _long_? I would go to sleep, but I can't—I'm on watch. ot that I'd be sleeping anyway—Careers don't sleep, not four nights into the Games.

Four nights. Has it really been only four? It seems like forever. A forever of _not doing anything_.

Seriously. Night after night of hunting and getting absolutely _nothing _except that crazy girl and the boy from Seven, and they didn't even put up a good fight. Excuse me, but I didn't volunteer for these Games just to sit around with my allies and get annoyed. I want to wreak havoc, as much of it as possible. So when do I get my goddamn _chance_?

I'm starting to regret giving away the Eight girl's killing. I only have one death to my name, one of the weakest tributes in the arena. Eleven tributes killed already, only five of them by Careers, and only _one_ by me.

I could blame the Gamemakers. They're the ones who put the weapons out where the weaker tributes could get them. But it's been days for us—for _me—_to level out the playing field.

I slide a knife out of my jacket. _Time to start leveling._

I start towards the spot near the Cornucopia where the Fours are sleeping, but something jerks me back just as I reach towards Maddox's throat. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Emerald hisses. "Are you an idiot? It's not time yet!"

"Who says it's not?" I say, twisting out of her grip.

She tries to grab me again, but I'm a second ahead of her and am holding my knife at the perfect angle for jabbing itself up into her arm. As she grabs her knives, I slash against her hand, forcing her to let my go, and add in a backflip just for measure.

"_Don't. Mess. With. Me._" I grin my most psychotic grin. "_Okay?_"

She scowls but backs away all the same, and even as our alliance crumbles into dust, I can't help glowing with pride.

_That was the most fun I've had in days._


	51. Somewhere No One Else Can Find

**The skinning and cleaning trainer instructions are taken from...a website FanFiction won't let me link to. Well, it's the first one that comes up when you Google "skinning and cleaning animals." Thank you, Internet.**

**Fun Fact of the Day: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part X. District Five mentor Ilma won the 174th Games. As this was the 100th Anniversary of the 74th Games, tributes were told that the victor would be executed one year after the end of these Games. The shortest Games in history ensued, with half the tributes committing suicide within the first hour, and the immediate backlash from the Capitol was so great that the decision was revoked and the Head Gamemaker quietly executed.**

…..

_Link Anderson, District Three_

The trees are shedding their leaves much faster now, to the point where it seems like half the trees' leaves just fall to the ground in one clump. They crunch horribly loud under my boot as it treads. The sound they make under my prosthetic is different, a sort of _gnash_, except soft. _Crunch, gnash, crunch, gnash._ Any tribute listening would be able to tell it's me.

I start to lose my balance a couple of times, grasping the trunks of trees just before I hit the ground. Each near-fall makes my heart race—not because I wouldn't be able to get up, but because if that happens during a fight, I'm dead. It would only take a moment to stab down into a scrambling, fallen body...

I shudder and keep moving. I always have to keep moving.

The days are starting to blur together, to be honest. I've lost count. It can't be that long, and yet it feels like forever. The Gamemakers messing with arena's seasons doesn't help. What day is it? How long have a survived? How long have I been moving on since—since—

Since Thalia?

I don't know why I'm hesitant to say her name. I should be screaming it at the top of my lungs, every second of every day that I'm in this damn arena. _Thalia, Thalia, Thalia, Thalia, Thalia._ She deserves—no, it's not even a question of deserving; she deserves _so much more_ than what the Capitol has done to her. She was beautiful and brilliant and bold and _God_, I love—loved—_love_ her so much it hurts.

She had papers. She had plans, plans and equations that she just _had_ to write down on the train, on the day of the reaping, and I thought... I thought she might be trying to throw me off, to trick me, but it's _Thalia_ and now I know she would never, _ever_ do that.

Would I? If I had the chance? Could I have looked her in the eye and tricked her, knowing that her death would have been my fault, any way it went?

No, no I couldn't. And that's why people like me don't win the Hunger Games—not people with disabilities, people who are in love. Even Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark didn't win in the end, not really.

As if to prove my point, I hear a growl come from behind me, like the sound of a wolf or a mutt or both.

I consider just standing there and letting it devour me, whatever it is, but my foot steps forward without thinking. Soon I'm running, fast as I can, _crunch, gnash, crunch, gnash,_ propelled by the need to survive as the need to mourn is pushed to the back of my mind.

…..

_Jace Latone, District Nine_

Every fiber in me just wants to go back to sleep. It's a... dull sort of... ache, I guess, the feeling that you just want to drop down where you are and fall unconscious for hours. When you put it that way it sounds morbid, almost suicidal. But it's not. At least, not yet.

It's odd, how you never realize how startlingly _divine_ something is until you don't have it anymore. A mother, until she's ripped away from you in a mess of blood and tongues. Friends, until they leave in the middle of the night without a trace. Sleep, until you're in the Hunger Games and if you close your eyes for too long you die.

Dreams, until they turn into nightmares.

_The face staring back in the mirror was years older than mine, yet the look in her eyes was frighteningly familiar. I must have spent at least an hour just gazing at it, the thoughts swirling around in my head too tired to make the connections that needed to be made. That is, until she opened her mouth and the jolt of white-hot pain burned through my mind._

"Jace?"

"_What do you want with me?" I said. Only I didn't, because no sound came out. I tried again and again, so many times, only the scratchiest of guttural noises slipping past my lips._

"What?" I say, scrunching up my face as if to ward off the daylight.

_The face said nothing, only watching with eyes that blazed like... like stars._

"Look up."

I do. And when I do, a shower of little white flecks fall steadily onto my face. I glance around. The trees are practically bare and the leaves on the ground dusted, as if with sugar.

"_What do you want with me?" There. I said it. It was barely a whisper, but I said it. I wasn't the one in the mirror. That wasn't—_wouldn't_ be—me. I could still and would still be able to speak, even if there was nothing to be said._

"Winter's come," Caprice says. Her facial expression is readable as ever—frightened, though I can't tell if it's of the snow or of the fact that the girl from Ten may still be tracing us. "You were right."

_Can the Capitol monitor dreams?_

"Yeah," I say after a pause, kicking some of the leaves up with the tip of my boot. "I was."

If only I could hibernate for the winter.

…..

_Yon Trizzle, District Eight_

Snow, snow, snow. Just like the snow in Eight when I left for the Capitol. Just like the snow Thera and my mother are under. Except not. My mentor... my mentor told me that I shouldn't trust anything inside the arena, not the people or the mutts or even the weather. And the Gamemaker said I should kill, and Thera said I should come home. The instructions all make sense together.

Another parachute comes down, another instruction to follow. Flint and steel, to make a fire against the cold. To cook. But there's no food, only another note.

I'm hungry for food.

But the note... the note is important. The note will tell me what to do next, how to get food, what to do with the sponsor gift. I tear the little piece of paper off of the ring attaching it to the parachute and open it in the palm of my hand. It's hard to read; the letters are squished together to fit onto the slip. Lots of information, lots of instructions.

The bigger letters say, _Snow is here. Make a fire. Stay warm._ Vague suggestions, not detailed enough. Nothing about food. Smaller letters: _You have the wolf's body nearby. Skin it with one of the knives and wrap the fur around yourself for warmth._ A good instruction. But there's something else, smudged at the bottom. I can only make out one little word of it: _eat._

"Eat what?" I say to myself. "The berries are gone and so's the bread and the apple and the other sponsor gifts." No notes come, so I sigh and walk towards the wolf body. I can skin it and get the fur and maybe then there'll be a note.

I close my eyes and try to remember what the training instructor said when I went to that station. _Most animals, regardless of size, are done basically the same way. Starting at the tail, make a cut\ beneath the skin all the way to the chin. Next, cut down the inside of each leg to the joint above each hoof or foot. Use your fist and work the hide off, using a knife only in tough spots so you won't cut the hide and ruin it. Take care not to puncture any organs with a knife while skinning or cleaning; you'll contaminate the edible parts..._

"Edible parts," I whisper.

A moment later a get another parachute, empty except for a note: Yes, you can eat the wolf.

…..

_Carreen Haggerty, District Four_

I'm not exactly a big fan of daylight tribute-hunting, especially not in this weather. But it makes sense to do this now rather than later, and I can't refute the evidence—the only tributes we've managed to catch and kill were found during the day. Besides, it's easier to see footprints in this snow, even though the little white flakes are just starting to stick to the ground.

It makes me uneasy, this "winter weather." The vast majority of people from District Four, myself and Gabriel included, have only seen snow on our television screens, never in real life. _I guess if I win there'll be plenty of snow on the Victory Tour route,_ I think.

For some reason, the thought gives me pause, though I don't know why. I want to win. Of course I want to win. But somehow the idea of a Victory Tour for me seems as far out of reach as the stars are to us. As I am to Cedric.

_Cedric._ A week in the Capitol and six days in the arena—our six-month anniversary is tomorrow. I glance at the bracelet of shells that he gave to me. _This is why I need to win._

And so I lead the hunt for the other tributes, trudging through the snow—who knew it was so _wet_?—and keeping an eye on the other Careers, just in case their sudden but inevitable betrayals are coming sooner than expected.

My allies talk idly about the opponents left, the cycling of the seasons and the weather extremes, just to fill the silence. Emerald doesn't even seem to care about being heard, though, to be fair, a pack of five doesn't really need to rely on stealth. Luka's a bit quieter than usual. His trademark smirk, however, still remains on his face. My gaze never leaves him.

It isn't long until we come across a footprint, though not the kind we've been looking for.

"Wolves," says Marius after studying them for a moment. "Large wolves."

"_Lovely,_" Luka says. "_Just_ what we need. _Thank you!_" he yells up at the sky, smirk turning into a grin. "Take all the kills away from us, why don't you?"

While everyone is busy rolling their eyes, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Slowly, I turn. It's Gabriel. He points towards a patch of ground just behind me. He's written in the snow:

_L+E plan to strike soon._

I don't need to guess who L and E are.

…..

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

Damn this wound. I don't know whether it was blessing or a curse that the Elven girl couldn't see well in the dark: she wasn't able to kill me, but she _was_ slashing like crazy, widening this goddamn gash she'd already made in my arm so it bleeds out even faster.

But I'm not dead yet. And that's what counts.

With a sigh, I scoop up a handful of the snow that's starting to stick to the ground and hold it against the cut. Snow is rare in Ten, but I _do_ know how an ice pack works, at least in theory. I bind the packed snow to my arm with a strip of cloth ripped from my jacket and hope it doesn't melt too soon. The jacket hasn't been doing much good against the cold, though I suppose it's better than nothing. The Capitol doesn't want us all to freeze to death, right?

Right?

_Dear Panem._ My head begins to throb, and my vision shifts in and out of focus. _What the hell is going on? The snow... or is it blood loss finally catching... finally catching up with me... or both..._ I glance up at the sky. No parachutes are coming. But I need medicine, right away...

I force myself to stand, gritting my teeth to ward off the pain. I have to think. Quickly and clearly. As long as I keep thinking, I'll be fine, with or without sponsor gifts. I can figure this out on my own.

Just then, a burst of static comes in—loud—from the sky-dome of the arena. _An announcement?_ I raise an eyebrow. What are the chances of _that_? But as the blur of sounds starts sorting itself into words, I realize with a start that this isn't an announcement. It's an argument.

An unintentional broadcast, straight from Gamemaker Central—and they're _arguing_.

"_You _just_ tell us about this—"_

"—_what the hell are we supposed to—"_

"—_whole 'list' business _two hours_ ago—"_

"_First six, now four more—"_

"—_all those engineered deaths—"_

"—_only makes sense with Aetius and what's happening in Te—"_

"_EVERYONE—SHUT THE—_HELL_—UP—WE'RE ON—AIR!"_

A deafening silence.

Then static.

Then, nothing.


	52. Whose Woods These Are

**Good news, everyone! An original story of mine (though very much Hunger Games-inspired) was recently published in a literary journal in my home state, Massachusetts! I'm absolutely thrilled! You all can read it over at mappingoutasky -dot- blogspot -dot- com / 2013 / 02 / barton-hollow -dot- html, as well as figure out my real name and what I look like...**

**I'm seriously hoping you all aren't creepy Internet stalkers.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XI. District Six mentor Anxo won the 180th Games. He had a similar strategy to Foxface's from the 74th: steal from your opponents and try never to be seen or remembered. As a result, Anxo is the victor with the fewest amount of kills, only coming out to defeat his district partner during the last ten minutes of the Games. This was also the year that Cameron's father competed, dying on day three as a casualty of the Careers.**

…..

_Marius Sheer, District Two_

"But the Gamemakers can'thave been talking about District Six. Both from there are dead already. _I killed one of them._"

Emerald shoots Luka an annoyed look from across the campfire. "You can still talk about people once they're dead, idiot. And there's plenty of reason to talk about Six after their boy's interview."

"Was that the one that the president cut short?" I ask. I can barely remember the night of the interviews. I can barely remember anything during training week anymore. It all seems so insignificant, compared to this.

"Yeah," Gabriel says. "He was saying things about being special and escaping the arena." He thinks for a moment, then adds the word "maybe" before trailing off.

For once, Carreen looks derisively at her district partner. "What? You think there's a way to escape the arena?"

"_I_ don't. _He_ did," the boy replies. "And if President Shadow was concerned enough to cut off his interview, maybe he's not as crazy as we all thought he was. Or, at least, there was something else the words he said could mean."

There is a pause.

"What about days in the Games?" Emerald asks. She seems to be fairly smart under the surface, given the ideas she's brought to this conversation. Not that I'm surprised. "This is night five. Tomorrow is day six. What they said was 'first six, then four more'. They could be adding days onto the Games."

"But _they_ can't control how many days the Games last for," I say.

"They _think_ they can," Emerald shoots back. "That's what matters."

"Maybe they were planning some big event to happen tomorrow," Gabriel says, "and then something happened so they have to push it back four days."

Luka grumbles a bit from his corner of the camp. "_Conspiracy theorists_. You all are missing the point. They were probably just talking about making more mutts or getting more cups of coffee or something. Unimportant things. The Head just didn't want us to hear their squabbling."

Another pause comes before the boy from Four speaks. "What _is_ the point, then?" he says. "What are we all missing?"

Luka leans forward. " '_All those engineered deaths.'_ They're taking kills away from us."

Emerald rolls her eyes and calls him an idiot again. Carreen and Gabriel glance at each other, looking worried or something. I look between them all and can't help but get the feeling that I'm missing something, something big between the four of them. Something they're not telling me.

Maybe we planned that something during training and I just forgot.

…...

_Veras Valdez, District Five_

I have a plan. At least, I _think_ I have a plan.

_No._ I _know_ I have a plan, and this plan is the last chance I have. I might as well place all of the little confidence I have left in it.

The wolf mutt's been following me, tracing my scent as I jumped from tree to tree. I was stupid to believe that it would just leave as soon as it realized I was gone. And what's worse, the thing has run me to the edge of the arena. No more jumping trees. The nearest one is bare, limp, and _just_ out of reach. The Gamemakers must be proud of that masterpiece of arena design.

_But the Gamemakers were _arguing_. That means they're vulnerable and more likely to make mistakes. If you can get them to forget about you for a day, that's one more day that you've survived—_

_One matter at a time,_ I tell myself._ You don't have the time to lose. You have to get rid of the wolf now. And make sure it's for good this time._

I let out a small exhale and shift my foot ever-so-slightly, further down the branch. There is a chance the creature could be tricked by that alone, but I'm not going to take that chance. Instead, I grab a handful of snow that had collected on the branch, bending down as I do so.

The wolf sees me. I am certain of that.

I eye the tree calculatingly. I can't monitor its reaction by its face, but I can hear a paw placed forward in the snow. One way the winter weather has come to my aid rather than my detriment.

After the disaster that was the 183rd Games, the Gamemakers are careful to keep the mutts smart, able to anticipate the tributes' movements, or at least their probable movements. And right now, I need this wolf to be thinking I'm about to jump, either to the tree, to my death, or both.

It takes another step forward.

Its eyes flicker from me to the spot it expects I'll land.

I spring—not into the tree or the snow, but onto the wolf itself. My knife is already in my hand and stabbing down into the back of the mutt's neck just as my body collides with its. I jab at the eye sockets first, then the pressure points, arteries, joints—all quick and clean incisions, almost like a deadly surgery, all while the thing snarls in indignation. It cannot see me. It cannot even turn around before the life force in it collapses completely.

I feel nothing. I can handle anything.

…...

_Caprice Alexander, District Eleven_

"Caprice! CAPRICE!"

I wake to the sound of screaming and snarls. Instinctively, my arm moves to throw my knife in the direction of the attackers before I even realize what they are. _More mutts. Damn._ Jace has started scaling a tree to escape, but the branches of the closest one aren't high enough for complete safety. I follow her anyway, slashing at the glimpses of fur I allow myself to get before forcing myself to _move_ and all vision blurs.

I don't know how many there are. I don't know how fast they are, or how strong, or even if they are really wolf mutts at all and not something else entirely—all I know is that _I am not going to die tonight—_

I climb higher and higher. I'm good at climbing, and soon I'm higher than Jace, almost at the highest climbable branch. Something starts shaking the base of the tree. Jace loses her balance a little. I catch her and pull her up. I glance down. The mutts are up on their hind legs, using the tree to steady themselves. One of them—its jaws are about a foot away from my face.

My grip on the one knife I have tightens. I lost the other one flinging it at the mutts. I can't lose this one.

Quickly, I duck down and make a stabbing motion into—into nothing. Into air. It's out of reach. _The damn thing's out of reach._ And reflexively, my grip's loosened. I watch the moonlit surface of the blade fall and hyperventilate as I realize I've lost my last chance.

_No._

_I'm not going to die._

_Not tonight._

_Jace still has a knife. Maybe two. She can..._

"JACE!" I scream. But she doesn't turn or respond. She just stays there, scarily still.

_She can..._

I stop breathing as the mutt launches itself into the air and snarls victoriously. I can feel its breath—

—_I AM NOT GOING TO DIE TONIGHT—_

And then I can't.

—_NO—_

I open the eyes I didn't realize I was closing as I realize my neck is feeling cold air, not warm. The mutt... isn't going to eat me anymore. Because there's a sound... the sound of arrows hitting flesh...

I stare into the dark and watch as each mutt slides down the tree and turns, growling instead of snarling this time. They all turn in the same direction.

It takes me a moment to make out the figure of a person standing in front of the wolves. It's Bri. She's shooting at the wolves. But why aren't they dead?

Before I get the answer to my question, Bri turns and runs, the whole pack chasing her.

…..

_Bri Geers, District Seven_

These arrows aren't working. For whatever reason, they aren't sharp enough to pierce the hides of the wolves. Believe, me I've been trying, and it's cost me arrows. I would be aiming for the eyes, but Ican't possibly expect to be that dead a shot _while_ running from _two_ of these mutts, never mind five or six or however many are on my tail now. I'm lucky if I live to see the sun rise in two hours. I'm lucky if I live to even cross paths with Emily Raine before I die, never mind kill her and avenge my father.

But the thought keeps coming back to me, again and again: if I kill her, if I can give the Capitol some entertainment, a dramatic confrontation for the ages, maybe they'll keep me alive. I can promise them action. I got the highest score in training out of anybody. I got an _eleven_, for crying out loud! And I'm only twelve years old! I could be so—much—_more_—

_They don't think about that. They _can't_ be thinking about that. The Gamemakers are nothing if not preoccupied, if that accidental announcement is anything to be trusted. _Strange, I've had barely any time to think about that. I can't even remember what they were saying, not really. There were... just a bunch of numbers... and a list...

"_All those engineered deaths."_

I glance back at the mutts behind me. Could this have been what they were talking about? Engineering my _death_—by this wolf pack? _Maybe the Five girl's, too..._

But _why_? Why would they want—_need_—to do that? Why _ever_?

_It's the Hunger Games, idiot._ But, see, it's not, not really. The Gamemakers were talking about something unusual, something secret, something I could _focus_ on if these goddamn _muttations_ weren't running me into the _ground—_

I have to think of something. I have to _do_ something—something extraordinary—to make the Gamemakers spare me another day. They're the ones who own this freaking place. They control everything that happen in here, whether they're arguing about it or not.

But what am I supposed to _do_ if I'm _alone_?

_You're alone, abandoned, everyone's betrayed you and left you to die... your father tried to take care of you, he died. _Panem_ tried to take care of you, they sent you into this arena to die. Your mentor never gave any advice, your sponsors never gave you any help, your allies watched you save them and did nothing in return..._

I fall without realizing, sink to my knees without feeling, spread my arms out wide without thinking. Then I see my prey, and all fear leaves my newly-energized body, because this is all I have left.

Best make it a good one.

…..

_Emily Raine, District One_

The first thing I hear is the sound of the wolves, suddenly stopping and howling for no reason.

Next, I hear the responses, another pack of mutts howling back. _More._ I close my eyes. I don't think I can handle any more.

Closing my eyes is a mistake. When I do, I can't see them—_her_—coming. And I need to see.

Then comes the growl. I open an eye to see how many of them there are, because it sounds like thousands. It isn't. It's twelve. But in a way, that's worse.

Twelve. Twelve wolves and another captive of theirs, a twelve-year-old girl. But she is far from prey and far from a friend.

She has a bow, she has an arrow. The arrow is pointed at me. If the wolves don't kill me, she will.

The wolves move first.

We run. And run. And run. We run until the breath is pushed out of our lungs, so forcefully it hurts to speak. But I do anyway. A scream, a cry for help. "UNCLE SPARK—UNCLE SPARK, _PLEASE—_"

"_Your uncle won't send you anything,_" the girl from Seven hisses. "_All he does is kill._"

This breaks me. But not like crying or stopping or accepting death or anything. No. It makes me faster. It sets me free. _Your uncle won't send you anything._ I am the only one who decides—or _cares—_whether I live or die.

So, when I see the sun rise, I don't even register it in my mind. I only think of my own survival as I run, and it's almost like I'm half-dead already.

I think I can even hear a cannon.


	53. Disarm

**I'm still waiting for Life to apologize to me for not letting me write this chapter until today.**

**Oh, and random note: if anyone wants to hear my version of "The Hanging Tree" or listen to me trying to sing a two-part medley of a bunch of THG-related songs, go to (slash) amata-le-fay (slash) sets. Thank you.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XII. Bella Coleman, Bri's mentor, won the 175th Games, which was the seventh Quarter Quell. The card for this year mandated that those reaped from each district would be a couple with at least one child, to show how the rebellion ripped families apart. Bella's husband was killed at the Cornucopia and the Games ended with a second bloodbath as she killed her husband's murderers with an adze. Bella's child later died of tuberculosis.**

…..

_Ivan Chekhov, Victor of the 173rd Games, District One Mentor_

Emily Raine died of an arrow in the back of her neck at 3:13 a.m., day six of the Games.

Spark had been screaming at the TV the entire time, desperately pushing buttons to send non-existent parachutes from non-existent sponsors as if it would somehow add time to her life span. After that one time, though, the girl didn't scream or ask for help or anything. She just kept running with this dull look in her eyes, the look of a tribute who knows they're dead already.

That gave the girl from Seven plenty of time to explain her motivation for killing this girl. Apparently there were plenty of specifics. From what the Gamemakers let the audience hear, it doesn't seem like much—Spark killed someone she was close to, presumably in the Hunger Games. Only the Gamemakers, the President, Spark, and I have seen the full tapes.

What Seven actually said was that Spark killed her _father_ in the woods outside _District Seven_. Quite a difference, there. Exactly what he was doing there is what President Shadow and her Capitol interrogators are trying to find out right now. Though, since his niece is already dead, I doubt they'll have much leverage over him.

Because Emily Raine _is_ dead. The girl from Seven shot her in the back of the neck, and apparently the arrows aren't too blunt to pierce _human_ skin. Blood leaked from the wound. Her eyes rolled back into her head. The cannon signifying her death fired minutes ago.

So what the _hell_ is her body doing still running around, being chased by the wolves and shot at by an incredibly confused-looking twelve-year-old girl?

It's not like it even _looks_ like she's alive. Her limbs are jerky and awkward as they move. The freaking arrow is _sticking out her freaking neck_. But somehow she's still moving, and whatever feat of technology the Gamemakers have managed, it is seriously starting to creep me out.

_That Seven girl must be one hell of a tough kid, not to be screaming her head off right now._

I blink, and see that the wolves are descending upon Emily's walking corpse. They're fast, faster than you can believe, and soon they're ripping it apart, blood all over their teeth. _But you can see parts of __her body still trying to move._

It's gory and raw and so typically Hunger Games it makes me want the vomit. Being in the arena is hell, but watching the Games is a completely different sensation. In the arena, at least you're _glad_ to be alive.

Seven refuses to watch the gore-fest, instead heading as fast as she can in another direction, making good use of the wolves' distraction. Unfortunately, six of the mutts have gotten bored with desecrating Emily's body and start chasing Seven again.

I lean back in my chair and try not to think about the fact that I just saw a fourteen-year-old girl's dead body running around for about a minute. It doesn't work. I just end up with the mental image of the Two girl from my Games, Ioanne, who strangled people with her braided hair—her corpse is running towards me—a gaping hole in her chest from my cannon—

I practically sprint across the room, eyes locked on the clock on the far end of the wall. I can't watch this. It would make me insane. Why don't they show anything of Luka? Or, frankly, anyone except the Seven girl? There have to be other things going on in the arena.

_If all else fails, I can volunteer to help interrogate Spark Raine. They'll need as many people as they can get in the intelligence department after the Aetius shooting—was that only two days ago?_

"You too, huh?"

I look up. Standing in the hallway is Bella from Seven, swallowing some pills that can't be legal. She stares at me coldly. "Victim of the walking dead?"

"Shouldn't you be watching out for your tribute or something?" I ask.

"Shouldn't _you_?" An eyebrow raise.

Before I can think of a suitable retort, the D2 victor-mayor Montague steps out of his room and gazes at us. "I can't be the only one thinking that these Games just _aren't possible_," he says.

"Deny it all you want. It's still happening," says last year's "winner," Eleven's Amy Oswald. 16 years old and already a contender in the contest of which-mentor-is-the-most-jaded.

Quill from Four pokes her head out of the door. "You think there'll be more?"

"Definitely," I mutter back. "The Gamemakers wouldn't waste the opportunity to have the highest ratings in Hunger Games history."

For a full fifteen minutes, there's silence. Then Ilma from Five comes out to talk to Bella. "Your girl's alive. She's at the edge of the arena, near Veras. Both her legs and her bow broken, but at least she's alive."

A pause, then someone far away adds, "Aren't we all?"


	54. Cross Your Heart

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XIII. In the 196th Games, future Eight victor Penny Hofstader allied with Eleven tributes Joy and John; it became apparent early on that Penny and Joy were in love with each other. On day 12, Joy was mortally wounded by a mutt and Penny was on the verge of killing herself when John intervened, talked her out of it, and helped her flee from the Careers closing in on their camp. Penny has had a soft spot for Eleven tributes ever since.**

…..

_Bri Geers, District Seven_

It's isn't fair, it isn't fair, it isn't fair it isn't fair it isn't fair _itisn'tfair_—

_Calm down. Calm down, Bri. You—you need to—just—just—calm down—_

It's pathetic. I can't even keep myself from crying. Not that anybody here would notice. Or care. I thought I saw a pair of eyes staring at me from one of the trees, but it was probably one of the _hundreds of wolf-mutts_ in the area. I'm surprised they haven't killed me yet. No. No. I'm not surprised. I just wish they had.

Bow's broken. Legs are broken. The body of the Raine girl I killed is _still_ right next to me—or rather, pieces of it. At least she's stopped moving. At least she's _dead_. But even then—I _killed _her. I _killed_ somebody, I actually—

_Calm down. Calm down. Now you're crying again. Calm down._

I wish they would just let me die already. I can't reach any of my arrows, so I can't stab myself with one of them. Could I—could I bleed out by clawing at my wrists? Would that work? Would I be able to take it or would I go crazy?

That's... that's assuming I'm not crazy already.

Time...

passes...

so...

goddamn _slowly_...

Imagine the Careers finding me here. _Wasn't that the little girl who got an eleven in training? And here she is, a sitting duck. Hey, One, you finish her off—_

One. Emily. Her body's still here. Dear God, _her body's still here_.

I wonder... I wonder if I'm going to have to eat it to stay alive, if that's what the Gamemakers want.

I'd rather die of starvation.

But—but—in one of the early Games, a tribute started eating his kills and they crushed him with an avalanche... what would it be in this arena? Another earthquake? Blizzards, what with the snow already falling? Or would they just tell the wolves to rip me apart?

That's all I want. I'm twelve years old. It's not the sky I'm asking for.

Kill me, somebody, _quick._

…..

_Link Anderson, District Three_

I stumble over my prosthetic when I first see it.

My head collapses onto a snow-covered rock in the middle of the trail, doing horrible things for my face and even worse for my brain, so I'm not even entirely sure it's real, what I see when I scramble back up and look closer. But I do see it, plain as day. It's Thalia—Thalia's face, Thalia's corpse. To accentuate this last part, the Six's boy's spear is still sticking out of her blood-coated back.

No. No. This can't be real. Why would they put her body back in the arena? I mean, for the audience, yes, but... what are they trying to do to the tributes? Make us go mad?

I should keep walking. Spare myself the pain. Freaking sponsors would see the emotion as weak, and then my odds would plummet. I'm in the final twelve. I have to be careful that people still think I have a chance...

I grit my teeth and walk past the body.

Seconds later, I turn back.

I at least need to pull out the spear, give her a memorial or something, maybe follow the Katniss tradition—every few years, a contestant turns up who puts flowers on a dead ally's body; it actually tends to _help_ their chances of survival. But there aren't any flowers here, just snow and rocks.

As I deliberate on what to do, a parachute falls in front of me. I scramble to pick it up. It's a small package, all wrapped up in green cloth. I open it. Some oil and a lighter, along with a few District Three biscuits to aid my survival.

Scott or Fromme or both of them want me to cremate her. And so I do.

But as I step away from the sudden burst of flames smoldering in the middle of the snow, I fall once more to the ground, startled, panicked. Because Thalia—her face—she _moved_. She _smiled_ at me. Her hands trembled as she registered the fact that she was burning. And she shrieked in horror. One long, piercing scream.

…..

_Jace Latone, District Nine_

"You _left_ me there! What the hell did you think you were doing, Nine?! Eliminating the competition? Standing by as your goddamn _ally_ gets ripped apart by a goddamn _wolf_?!" Caprice's red hair is vivid against the snow. So is the blood she spilled digging her knife into my arm.

I close my eyes. "Caprice-"

"Don't make excuse, you _bitch_! You were going to kill me—and you _knew_ I made a promise, you _knew_ I wouldn't try to kill you back, well, I'M THROUGH WITH THAT PROMISE!" She grabs my shoulders, slams me against the tree.

"Caprice-"

A thrown knife scrapes my cheek. "I found your _mother_, for God's sake, AND YOU WERE GOING TO LET ME DIE?!"

"_CapriceIwasasleep_." It all comes out in a whisper, a choked-down sob, barely discernible.

"You _what_?" You can tell she's trying to hold back the fury, the vengeance she's due, if only for a moment. And I'm thankful for that.

I drop my knives into the snow, raising my hands into the air. "I was... I was asleep."

"How the _hell _can you fall asleep while being chased up a-"

"I have no idea!" It comes out angrier than I thought it would be. "I don't know, ever since you told me about my mother, all this time, on watch, when you thought I was just resting, when you thought I was _awake_-"

"Your eyes were open, Jace!"

"That's exactly it! It's like I'm sleepwalking all the time—is this reality, is this the dream, is this me going mad—I'm going _mad! Stone cold crazy!_" My hands are shaking. Why are they shaking? I try to pull the knife out of my arm, but I can feel the blood draining already, black speckles dancing across my eyes. In the back of my head I can hear the voice of... the voice of Noaa, of all people... I'm dying, for God's sake! Why am I hearing my district partner's—

The scene around me melts.

I'm not dying. Caprice never even stabbed my arm. I was just... dreaming.

Again.

…..

_Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten_

My family is dead. This I know from the parachute.

It's funny, no mentor yet has ever exploited the system of being able to send notes into the arena along with parachutes. There have been plenty of smugglers in sponsor gifts—last year the Eleven girl got sent a knife hidden in a pickle jar—but no convenient notes, no "GET OUT OF THERE RIGHT NOW"s or "YOUR ALLY'S GOING TO BACKSTAB YOU AT THE FEAST"s. That's how I know this one is real. If there's a precedent for sending potential threats fake notes to weaken their resolves, I don't know of it.

The wording was vague, but the meaning was clear. _STAY STRONG, CHANTELLE. WE'RE THE ONLY ONES LEFT. BUT YOU NEED TO STAY STRONG. FOR GRAMPS. – A & L._

My family is dead, all except for the twins, and I'm trapped in an arena where people think the entire point of my existence is to die in battle. I'm tired and starving and cold. The Careers would think me an easy kill. Most likely, I have a total of two sponsors, and they're back in Ten mourning the mass execution of the people who raised me.

But _I. Will. Not. Break._

It's all I have left, survival, being alive. If I stop even trying to buy myself another day, then—then what do I have left? What will people remember me as? A hollow shell of a girl? I am _never_ going to be a shell.

If they're dead, which they probably are, I can use the anger to keep me going. I can _avenge_ them. But if for some reason this is all a lie, I will strangle the bastard who thought it up with my bare hands.

I'm the impossible girl. I'm the survivor. I'm the one who stabbed her blind district partner—I know how the Gamemakers think; I _am_ a Gamemaker. I'm the one out of twenty-four that's going to make it out of this place, back to District Ten. And no one's going to stand in my way. Cross my heart.

…..

_Emerald Honeycomb, District Two_

"I promise." Two of the easiest and worst words to slip out of my mouth. "We'll do it tomorrow night. You catch them all off-guard by volunteering for watch tonight, instead of the day we're actually going to kill them."

It's all a lie, of course. But Luka Saroque is easily persuaded—after all, what does he have to lose? He's careless with things, even with his own life. And that's what makes him an easy target.

_I promise. Tomorrow night._ It isn't that hard to say. But I know what it means. Death for him. And I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing.

Luka volunteers for watch. Everyone settles into their sleeping bags, tenser than ever before. I lean back and close my eyes, keeping up the facade for just a few more minutes...

I roll over and stab Marius straight through the heart. And so the battle begins.


	55. This Changes Everything

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XIV. In the private training session chapter, Gamemaker Claret notes that "in the entire history of 191 years worth of Games, there has been exactly one victor with a sweet disposition that hadn't gone insane by the end of her Games, and she had been surrounded and coddled by her more powerful allies." This victor is D9 mentor Audhild, who won the 153rd Games at age 14 and is now mute.**

…..

_Idina Carrin, Gamemaker_

"Career battle," Amata says over the intercom, for once managing _not_ to stutter. Let's see how long _that_ lasts. "No—problems with—the list—so—we can let—this alone. Pericles—get the life sim—simulator tech-"

"Got it, Fay," he cuts in.

Thank God. No more long-winded speeches about "the list" and how to make the tributes go insane or die as many times as possible. Now I can sit back and watch my Careers duke it out.

I glance at the broadcast monitor again, which is replaying Honeycomb's stabbing of Marius Sheer, the satisfying cannon shot. Lysander's jaw had dropped when he saw. He'd put ten grand on the Two boy, a "safe" but boring bet. "Fork it over, kid," I say with a stretched-out palm. The cinematographer hands me the money. I grin. "Told you Honeycomb was going places."

"Not fair," Revir comments from the side. "You bet on two tributes. That makes a good chance that you'll get twice the money."

"You're one to talk, Pond," Helena says. "Remember last year, when you _personally sponsored_ three?"

"Ugh! There were _circumstances_, you motherf-"

"SHUT THE HELL UP. THE BATTLE'S STARTING," I say. "GO HAVE YOUR GODDAMN SPAT SOMEWHERE _ELSE_."My fellow Gamemakers probably say something after that, but it's not like I give a damn. The Careers are fighting.

Honeycomb had leapt to her feet right after the stabbing and is now throwing knives at the Fours, both of whom had sprung up immediately to advance on Honeycomb. The girl—Correen Haggerty or something—deflects the knives with her spear as her district partner tries to circle around and get the Two in the back with his sword. Honeycomb sees this coming a mile away and turns on the boy. She throws another knife, which lodges in Four's right leg.

Amata intercoms us again. "Pericles—are—the chemicals in—Marius—yet?"

"Activating them now."

To everyone's surprise except ours, the dead Two boy's arm shoots up in the air and grabs Honeycomb's wrist. Luka Saroque has gotten over his shock by this point and immediately goes after his unfaithful ally, who is now stabbing the undead corpse as many times as possible. Saroque launches himself into the air and stabs down on Honeycomb's shoulder. She stabs his stomach in turn, then sends yet another knife at Haggerty.

It lodges in her throat, and as she tries to pull it out, she rips her own jugular by mistake. Cannon.

Her district partner, Maddox, runs straight for Honeycomb and Saroque, but the undead Marius reaches him first, and they start grappling with each other. Haggerty's body, still bleeding from the throat, rises and attacks her killer, but Saroque, in a moment of characteristic theatricality, turns to glare at the corpse. "_She's busy, do you mind_?" He stabs it, then Honeycomb in turn. The first falls immediately to the ground, but the girl from Two keeps fighting. She's already dealt him a serious blow in the abdomen. All she needs to do now is keep herself alive until he dies.

Cut to Maddox, who by now has slashed down the Two boy's corpse and is heading for the others again. Honeycomb jabs at his chest, a puncture deep enough to rupture one of the veins near the heart. Maddox doubles over but manages to return the jab, but his sword penetrates even deeper, and soon the blade slices through the skin of her back. Cannon. Cannon.

"Congratulations—folks, we have—reached the—final—eight."

"And Luka is still alive," I say, grinning. "Which means I win all the bets on Careers, second year in a row."

With impeccable timing, another cannon sounds, and something sinks in my stomach. Luka has collapsed. I had been counting on him surviving another couple of hours so someone could get medicine to him in time, but he hadn't even lasted ten seconds. The final eight has become the final seven.

All the Careers are dead. For the first time in Hunger Games history, no Careers have survived past Day Seven of the Games.

This changes everything.


	56. The Victor Could Be You

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XV. In Chapter 52, Veras mentions that "after the disaster that was the 183rd Games, the Gamemakers are careful to keep the mutts smart, able to anticipate the tributes' movements". This refers to D10 mentor Gavin Longwood, who managed to scare some of the arena's flesh-eating horse mutts into stampeding towards the Cornucopia, trampling the competition that had gathered there for the Feast.**

…..

_Day Eight._

The sun rises on a snow-covered arena, the very picture of tranquility but for the blood-soaked patch of ground where the Careers' camp had once stood. The camera dives down into the barren forest and sweeps pas each of the tributes in turn: Jace and Caprice, the last alliance to hold out, however shaky; Bri Geers, the fallen heroine, slowly dying at the edge of the arena; Veras Valdez, in hiding amongst the wolves; Link, the boy crippled not by his leg, but by his heart; Chantelle Jacobsen, the ruthlessly clever girl with nothing to lost; and Yon from District Eight, the unfeeling, almost inhuman axe-crazy killer. They've all heard the six cannons that can only mean Career deaths. They all know they're in the final seven. They all think they're safe, at least for now.

And they are. The audience needs a day to process the game change that had occurred just last night. The government is frustrated with this, but even President Shadow herself has to agree that what the audience wants, the audience must get. And so the sun sets without another drop of blood spilled.

It's not something the Gamemakers will let happen again.

…..

_Day Nine._

The undead body of Chantelle's blind district partner tries to strangle her in her sleep. At the slightest touch, she wakes and reflexively shoves her knife into its forehead. It slumps forward. She stabs it again in the heart and walks deeper into the forest.

Jace and Caprice are running low on supplies and on patience. Jace is now spending half the time in a daze, lighting the necessary fires and rebuilding the necessary shelters without comment, almost as if sleepwalking. She rarely gets any actual rest, however, and anyone, including Caprice, can see she's falling apart. Few in the Capitol think to sympathize with her.

Another undead Thalia accosts Link from behind, knocking him to the ground. It pulls out some rope and starts making a noose, but Link grabs hold of a tree branch and pulls himself up. He doesn't have the heart to kill his former ally, however dead, and so he bolts away as fast as he can, katanas held with a death grip.

His leg starts to become an impediment, tripping him up about every ten yards, but he's faster than the walking corpse, at any rate, and so he has reason to believe he's out of trouble. What only the audience knows is that he's wandering dangerously close to Yon's territory, so close that a battle seems inevitable. Just a little further in to the east...

When it comes, the battle is quick but furious. Yon sees the boy approaching and abandons his meal, preparing himself to slice cleanly through Link's neck. Link sees him coming and tries to back away, swords at the ready in case Yon still tries to attack. Which he does.

The Eight boy runs forward and swings. Link ducks, then jabs at the boy's stomach. A blank look—blanker than usual, that is—flickers across Yon's face as he processes the orders he's been given. He soon concludes that killing someone is a higher priority than remaining uninjured, and so he swings again. Link blocks the axe's hilt with the blade of his sword, then makes a run for it. Yon follows, swinging a third time.

He does not miss. Cannon. Yon Trizzle now has two kills to his name, the highest body count of any surviving tribute yet.

…..

_Day Ten._

Jace wakes Caprice at three in the morning to tell her ally that she's leaving. "It's the final six," she says. "I don't want to kill you, and I know you don't want to kill me. I'll go. We can split the supplies." She looks so vulnerable in that moment—biting her lip, pale hair against pale skin, only sixteen years old—that any argument about the supplies dies on Caprice's lips. So the Eleven girl just nods.

They divide what's left of the crackers in silence. As the sun rises, Jace heads to the west as Caprice retreats further into the makeshift shelter she and Jace had built. And then the wolves come.

Eight wolf-mutts circle around the two tributes, forcing them back towards each other. The girl raise their knives to fight, but they both know they're outnumbered. "Jace?" Caprice says, breath quickening.

Jace doesn't respond. She's in a daze. The wolves move closer.

"Jace!" Caprice has started to scale a tree. "Jace, get up here!"

The Nine girl wakes at the last second, grabbing a branch and pulling herself just out of the wolves' reach. Caprice helps her up, and together they stare down at the wolves and try to think of a plan.

"We have four knives between us," says Caprice. "That's enough to stab half the pack at a time. If we get them between the eyes I think we can kill them with one blow—let me try—"

She throws a knife at the nearest one with as much force as she can muster. Her aim is perfect, but the blade of the knife doesn't even penetrate the skin. As one of the four weapons they have falls to the ground, the allies come to a realization. The audience wants blood, and that's what the audience must get. Someone has to die in order for one of them to stay alive.

Jace has slipped into a daze again, possibly in shock. She doesn't resist when Caprice grabs the front of her shirt and choke-holds her. She closes her eyes. She's ready to sleep.

But the Eleven girl is not killing her. Instead, she's whispering in her ear, so low the cameras can't pick it up. "I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill _anyone_." And with that, she lets go and springs into the air, falling to the ground with a sickening crack.

The wolves gather around the corpse. Jace drops her knife on her late ally, a mercy kill in case she hadn't already died. Cannon. The Nine girl leans back and closes her eyes again.

The body of Caprice Alexander rises two minutes later, only to be promptly pulled apart by the still-hovering wolves. The pieces writhe a bit and are ripped into smaller, then smaller, then smaller pieces, until nothing is left but bloody bits of flesh and flaming red hair against the snow.

…..

_Day Eleven._

"_Congratulations, final five tributes of the 191st Annual Hunger Games! I know we're in the final days here, but I just wanted to inform you on behalf of our generous sponsors that there's an upcoming Feast at the Cornucopia at midnight _tonight_, so any tribute can grab some nutritious snacks and medical supplies to fuel him or her through the rest of the Games! The victor could be you!"_ A crackle of static, then silence.

Veras Valdez is starving—for food _and_ for sponsors—and he knows his only chance is this Feast, no matter how much of an obvious trap it is. He collects his things and moves silently through the woods, for the first time budging from his cliffside tree.

On his way out, he passes by Bri Geers. Remembering her training score, he bolts away, only realizing that she was a sitting duck _after_ the fact. Agh. He could have gotten sponsors with another kill. Now his only hope really is the Feast.

By the time Veras arrives at the Cornucopia, the moon is high in the sky. He glances at the empty clearing, sighs, and waits for what could be his savior—or his death.

…..

_Day Twelve._

Chantelle has also decided to attend the Feast, worried about the gash in her arm that seems to be only getting worse despite her best efforts. She doesn't know if any of the other tributes are injured, but knows the medical supplies must be meant for her. She has plenty of sponsor-provided food, especially after that note from Annabelle and Langdon. But she can't dwell on that now. She has to focus.

A gong strikes both midnight and the beginning of the Feast. The ground trembles as something rises out of the ground—an enormous basket filled with food, with a few backpacks of other items surrounding it. Chantelle waits. Veras runs, hoping to collect the food early enough to avoid whatever trap the Gamemakers have planned for them.

As the Five boy reaches the basket and snatches a loaf of fresh bread, six shadowy figures appear from inside the Cornucopia, heading steadily towards Veras. The moonlight reveals them as the Careers—the _corpses_ of the Careers.

The undead Emerald throws a knife with a flick of her wrist. Veras ducks, but not quick enough. It hits his arm, and as he tries to pull it out, Carreen's body throws a spear. Cannon.

Chantelle darts back into the forest, knowing now that she has no chance of getting her needed medicine from the Feast. What she needs to do is get enough sponsors to buy herself the medicine—either that or kill the other three tributes left before the infection kills her.

At this point, the latter seems easier.

…..

_Day Thirteen._

The days grow shorter as the snow piles on. Bri has no supplies to last her through the thick of this winter, and certainly nothing to fight the frostbite eating up her fingers, and yet she still is able to grab hold of the undead Caprice, who has climbed up the edge of the cliff and sprung upon her from behind. Bri twists the corpse's arm and reaches for one of the arrows freezing in her quiver. One stab. One push. Caprice's corpse falls back down into the abyss at the furthest edge of the arena, dead once more.

An undead Luka is sent after Yon to keep the action going. Fighting a Career is considerably harder than fighting the District Three boy, especially when the Career is already dead and thus has nothing to lose. One of Luka's knives digs into Yon's left arm; the Eight boy doesn't even stop to wince in pain, instead swinging his axe at his attacker's head. Undead Luka ducks and lunges at Yon's leg. A knife in the calf. Another swing. The axe blade slices through skin to crack one of the Career's rib bones. Yon rips open the boy's chest and leaves him lying there.

Chantelle has made her way back to Jace and Caprice's former shelter. It has collapsed under the snow and no one is there, so Chantelle moves deeper into the forest in search of footprints leading to the nearest competitor.

As the sun sets, Chantelle reaches Bri's camp, if it can even be called a camp. She moves in for the kill.

Bri grabs an arrow and throws it at the Ten girl. Chantelle swears—it's hit the same arm that had already been wounded. She throws her knife in return, hitting Bri's throat. Cannon. The once-unstoppable huntress dies a frightened twelve-year-old, choking on her own blood.

Yon. Jace. Chantelle. The final three.

Two of them are on the president's kill list.

The fate of the Capitol rests entirely on Day Fourteen.


	57. Endgame

**Author's Note: This is it, guys. This chapter, we find out who wins and who dies, and after another chapter, our story will be complete. Thank you all for your lovely readership, and—as always—may the odds be ever in our final three's favor.**

**Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XVI. Last year's victor, Amy Oswald from Eleven, was saved from starvation early on in the Games when her mentor sent her a pickle jar—with a knife hidden inside of it. Amy relied immensely on this gift, living off pickles and stabbing any tributes she came across. It took nearly a month to kill everyone off. This was also the year Marius's friend Armen came in second place.**

. . . . .

_Aether Shadow, President of Panem_

"And if he _doesn't_ win?"

Amata pauses for a moment. One would expect her breath to be as erratic as her speech, but she is surprisingly calm as she stares at the surround-screen at the front of the room. "Then—we would have to—choose which—is the least t-threatening, Madam—President."

"They could _both_ be viewed as Mockingjays. Victims of the system. Persevered despite the odds. Lost more than one person due to us. Or, at least, that's the perception."

"We can—change—perceptions," Amata says.

"Of course you can, that's your job." I stand and walk over to her. "The only problem is, the tributes are all cut off from your perception-spins, completely cut off. And they're the ones who make the crucial decisions here. We can only control them so far." A new thought occurs to me. "Has there ever been a Games _without_ a victor?"

Amata's eyes go wide. "We—can't do that. The—audience—would _lynch_—us."

"We've got a rebel organization on our hands who just assassinated the Vice President, Amata." The Head Gamemaker glances at the screen nervously. I move to block her view. "The very _heart_ of this nation is on the line."

"I—understand, Madam—President," she says. "But—would it really be so terrible—if one of—the others won? Jace is—going—out of her mind—and Chantelle is smart—enough to know—which side she'll need to be—aligned with, if a revolution—starts."

"I suppose." I pause, mulling it over. "Isn't _everyone_ going out of their minds by now?"

Amata chuckles, though there's an undercurrent of nervousness. "Welcome to—the entire point—of the Hunger Games." She moves back over to the chairs in the center of the room where the other Gamemakers are working. "This is going to end—swiftly and—bloodily. Chantelle's heading out—towards the Cornucopia—and the—other two we're going—to chase there—with the wolf-mutts. _All_ of them." She smiles, almost sweetly. "Good—plan?"

"_Excellent_ plan," I say.

Within moments, the live broadcast shows an aerial view of the arena. We see wolves jumping up from underneath the cliffs and bounding through the forests all at once, howling. Jace wakes from a dream and stumbles out of the tree she's been hiding in, running as fast she can. Yon brings his axe down on a few of the mutts' necks, not seeming to understand that there are more coming that he won't be able to handle. Chantelle is the best off, reaching the Cornucopia quickly and hiding herself inside the tail of the golden horn, knife at the ready.

Jace zigzags through the trees, hoping to lose the wolves but mostly just frantic in trying to survive the next second, the next minute. Yon finally figures out that he can't win against a dozen wolves and is running as well. The wolves on Chantelle's side of the arena circle around the Cornucopia clearing, waiting for new meat to appear. Chantelle herself crouches down and grips her knife as tight as she possibly can. Waiting, just like the wolves.

There is a pause in the action for the briefest of moments, then Jacy Latone of District Nine emerges from the woods and darts towards the golden horn. Wolves close in from all sides. The girl runs into the hollow of the Cornucopia—

_Perhaps they'll kill each other. Perhaps the boy from Eight really will win, and we'll have a malleable victor who never was and never will be on my list of rebels. Perhaps..._

The fight inside the horn is cramped and dark and entirely on instinct. Chantelle's blade runs through Jace's shoulder. Jace's knife jams into Chantelle's side.

Yon reaches the clearing and hacks away at the wolves again with a facility that shouldn't be surprising, but is. As soon as he breaks a neck he whirls around to break another one. The remaining wolves—eight of them—gather at the mouth of the Cornucopia, preparing to rush him as a pack.

Chantelle twists her knife out of Jace's bloody shoulder and aims again two inches to the right—at the heart. Jace ducks and the blade hits her left eye instead. She starts to twitch in pain and her knife jabs up into Chantelle with each spasm.

The two wolves in front charge toward Yon, who slices one's spine but fails to hit the other at all. The second wolf starts at the boy, snarling. Yon brings the blunt of his axe down on that wolf's head as the other six run to catch up with their target.

Amata turns around to glare at the Gamemaker in charge of the muttations. "Pericles—you'd better not—let the—these mutts kill—"

Chantelle pushes Jace away as hard as she can and pulls the knife out of herself. Blood spurting out rapidly, Chantelle throws the knife at her competitor, but it ricochets off the side of the horn and clatters to the ground.

Yon kills another wolf, but the pack has begun to circle him now. "Yon—get out of there—Pericles—if your wolves—kill him—we'll have a-"

"A list victor." _A list victor. No. That shouldn't be allowed to happen. The list tributes are _supposed_ to be _dead_. _ My eyes are fixed on the boy from Eight, hacking at wolves as best he can. He's severely wounding a number of them, but a lone wolf-mutt has the fortune of being directly behind Yon...

Amata realizes this and starts screaming."PERICLES—YOUR GODDAMN WOLVES—ARE—KILLING—OUR CHANCE—!"

"You can't engineer everything, Amata!" Pericles snarls back.

"NON-LIST—TAKES _FREAKING—_PRIORITY—"

"_Let the mutts do what the goddamn mutts want to do!_"

The camera cuts to the fight inside the Cornucopia. Both girls have been knocked to the ground, both with numerous injuries, but neither of them are quite dead yet. "We should turn the mutts on them," I say. "Then both list tributes have been killed and we win."

"That's easier said than done, Madam President," says Pericles, having calmed down just a little. "But they have enough wounds that they could bleed out in time, if Yon keeps fighting-"

Yon and the wolves take over the broadcast as the mutt behind the boy rams his head into Yon's legs, knocking him down. He swings his axe and the wolf springs forward to get out of the way. The axe blade gets stuck in the ground.

Chantelle, inside the horn, slowly tries to get up. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, but she crawls toward Jace and grabs hold of her throat—

The wolf sinks its teeth into Yon's neck and rips the head away from the body. Cannon.

Amata swears violently. She's worked herself into a fit over the Eight boy. Even I am tenser than usual. There's no avoiding a list victor now. But which one?

Chantelle has begun strangling the other girl, but Jace starts kicking up against Ten's chest to get her off. The tip of her boot digs into Chantelle's side wound. The Ten girl doubles over in pain and her grip loosens the tiniest bit.

Jace's hand searches the floor for a knife. Her hand finds Chantelle's blade and she slams it up into the girl on top of her. She can't see well, but she knows she's hit the heart when Chantelle's body goes limp all of a sudden, hands still wrapped around her neck. Cannon.

Jace closes her eyes and doesn't move for a few seconds. The Gamemaker Fabian speaks into his microphone. "_Congratulations, Jacy Faith Latone, Victor of the 191st Annual Hunger Games._"

Amata walks over to me, not even bothering to look as the helicopter descends into the arena to pick up the wounded new victor. "What are we—going to do?" the Head Gamemaker asks me. "About—possible—rebellion?"

I think for a moment, then respond as calmly as I can. "We find a way to use her against the rebels."


	58. Eye of the Storm

**How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XVII: There have been five victors from Twelve in the entire history of the Hunger Games: Mandi Iridian, Haymitch Abernathy, Katniss and Peeta Mellark, and Steel Hawthorne, oldest daughter of the tracker-jacked Commander Gale Hawthorne who turned the tide of the Second Rebellion in the Capitol's favor. Steel won the 118th Games due to experience fighting her father in fits of madness, and her story briefly inspired Twelve to become a Career district, a plan that never succeeded.**

. . . . .

_Jacy "Jace" Faith Latone, District Nine, Victor of the 191st Games_

I wake up in complete silence to a white ceiling and an annoyingly bright light, nothing and no one else in sight. No. Wait. There's an IV in my arm. I'm in a hospital bed. No orderlies, no Avoxes. Just Darian beside me.

_Darian._ My father. His face has transformed from inscrutable to overjoyed in the few seconds it takes to realize I'm awake. "Jace!" He must be ecstatic that I'm alive.

_Should I be?_

"When did you get to the Capitol?" I mutter. "Where—where is everybody?"

Darian puts a hand on my shoulder. "We're home. Nine." He hesitates a little. "You were comatose for almost two weeks. The Capitol—they postponed all the after-Games stuff—"

The Games._ The Games. _

_I was in the Hunger Games. I _won_ the Hunger Games._

_Oh, God._

_They're all dead._

Darian's voice fades away, I can't even hear what he's saying. Bri. Caprice. Noaa. Chantelle—Chantelle, who I _killed_. They were... _oh, God._

_Maybe I could just—just—_

"Jace. Jace, what are you doing?" He puts a hand on my shoulder and wraps his arms around me trapping me oh god stop it stop it now he's going to jump down and be ripped apart by these wolves and oh god he can't hold me like that like caprice—

"_Get away from me._" I've ripped the IV out and am standing up, fist clenched around itself as if I have a knife in my hand. I slowly force myself to look at him, to calm down. "Darian. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." His face is back to being stoic. Reminds me that I have to be, too. "They postponed the victory ceremonies because all district citizens had to evacuate the Capitol before it got quarantined. No one in, no one out, except for President Shadow."

I furrow my brow. "Why? What happened?"

"A—_rebellion—_happened." Someone's behind me. My breath starts quickening as I whirl around, imaginary knife still in my hand, as if that would do me any good. It's a purple-haired woman I recognize immediately. I clench my teeth and glare at Amata le Fay, Head Gamemaker who made my life hell starting a month ago.

"Why are you here?" I try not to let my hatred show. I doubt it's working. "No one in, no one out."

"I'm a—district—citizen—you know," she says, raising her eyebrow slightly.

"_No_."

"Born and—raised—in Nine."

I've beaten her to the ground before I even realize it. I don't need a knife after all, fists work fine if she's not expecting it. "HOW THE _HELL_ COULD YOU DO THAT!" Punch out an eye. "HOW THE _HELL_ COULD YOU WATCH _YOUR NEIGHBORS' CHILDREN_ GO OFF TO DIE AND THEN _PLAN_ HOW TO MAKE THEM SUFFER!" Kick in the abdomen. "WHAT DID YOU _EVER _DO FOR NINE?! YOU CAN'T _DO_ THIS!" Fingers scratching up the face.

"Jace!" Darian doesn't touch me again, just stepping in between me and le Fay. I back away, but as soon as he leaves she's gonna be dead.

"They—jacked me—Jace," the Gamemaker says after a moment. "The—rebellion—_Nine_—jacked me like—Gale Hawthorne. To give—the Capitol—its own medicine. Expected—me to—be—controlled." She moves her head a little and starts to stand. "They'll—come for—you too—the rebellion."

"So the Capitol's gonna do the exact same thing to me." I cross my arms. The last thing I need as a goddamn war. "Jack up a strong district kid and send her off to destroy the enemy, General Hawthorne Version 2.0. Except this one's already been through an arena and is too jaded to care?"

"The—victor was—_supposed—_to be—Yon Trizzle." Her fingers are curling. "There—were ten people—who _weren't_—supposed to—win these Games—and we—killed _all—_of them—except—_you_." She, like me, can't hide her contempt at this point. "We—_failed_. And—I'll find—a—way to—fix it—or _die trying_."

"Jace." Darian takes a step toward me. "Jace, think of your mother."

"My mother's fate wasn't _her_ fault, it was this f*cked up _world_'s," I snarl back. "I'm not going to play your game anymore, le Fay. Yours _or_ Shadow's."

And with that, I run like the wolves are behind me.

Outside the fence beyond Oil Rig 42 is a crumbling old rail track that's been grown all over with ivy and moss so you can barely see it anymore. It's not a forest. That's good. I wouldn't be able to do this in a forest. I push past old rusted metal railings and though crushed leaves and twigs, and when I look back and can't see the city anymore, I lie down, close my eyes, and sleep.


End file.
